Inkbound (A DaveKat fic)
by tennantstype40
Summary: Karkat Vantas, a troll living on Alternia, meets a human by the name of Dave Strider. He has absolutely zero plans for actually talking to him. (A sort of enemies to lovers fic. Warnings for some mentions and depictions of abuse. Deaf Dave & Standard, Angry Karkat.)
1. Town with an Ocean View

**This fic is also on Archive of Our Own, under the same username and title. The version on AO3 has illustrations.**

 **Feedback is appreciated. If you actually know ASL, and I've gotten something wrong, let me know! I'm doing a lot of research for this fic, but it's not perfect. My primary goal is to diversity fic, so doing it wrong would be counter-productive.**

* * *

It's one of seven conjoined stores in a downtown strip mall. The building is old, ugly, and made of crumbling brick. Efforts have been made in the past to beautify the structure, including the addition of some flower planters around the glass entrance, but it's had little effect. In fact, it's only made it uglier. Emblazoned upon the black stripe across the top of the building is the name of the shop, written in flourishing script: _Mage's Emporium_. The window displays are stuffed with trinkets—a whole shelf of various crystal glasses and incense burners. A fake human skeleton, likely a school science lab piece, stands alongside an iron cauldron, the inside of which is lit by a flickering light, which alternates between green and purple. Dark red velvet curtains frame the entire scene.

The inside isn't much better. Display cases offer glimpses of fantasy swords and daggers. Oddly shaped arrangements of chimes hang from the rafters, and magic kits are stacked in scattered, haphazard piles.

Next door, there's a shabby tattoo parlor, Inkbound. It's run by an eccentric older troll by the name of Kurloz, co-owned by his ancestor, Gamzee, and staffed by only two artists. You have no clue who one of them is. He's a standard-issue hipster. Big, shabby beard and lots of plaid. A sort of bulky lumberjack fellow, and he seems nice enough. Not that you've ever spoken to him.

The other staff member is someone you're more familiar with. He's a friend of your coworker, John, and he's the biggest goddamned tool the universe has ever formed from the elegant elements that create stardust. His name is Dave Strider, and he's always got a pair of black Ray-Ban aviators on top of his head, nestled like an ugly crow in his blond hair. He'd wear them, but his use of sign language makes doing so impractical and stupid. After all, a language based on posture and expression doesn't bode well for a style of shades that covers half of a face.

John talks about the bastard nonstop. He extols his apparent virtues of coolness and irony, though you've yet to see either such qualities emerge. All you've seen is a pale, walking personification of the dictionary definition of jackal.

You've never spoken to him in depth, but the little bit of conversation you've had with him is enough to tell you that anything between you and him would go to shit in a heartbeat.

Not that that's going to deter the ever-perky and positively positive John Egbert. For the past year, he's done nothing but try to hook the two of you up. He's invited you and dumped you with Dave enough times for you to start outright refusing to meet him.

His latest trick has been inviting Dave over more regularly, and right now is one of those times.

The two of them are sitting on the Rococo-style sofa against one of the sword display cases. John is showing off a new magic trick, and Dave looks as if he's about ready to drop dead. At the very least, you can sympathize. John tends to repeat the same tricks _ad nauseam_.

This particular trick concludes with John drawing a previously picked card from his sleeve.

"And I believe _this_ is your card?" inquires a sparkly-eyed Egbert.

Dave, in return, eyes the card over. He frowns. Your high school knowledge of ASL allows you insight to his conversation. He holds his right hand at roughly shoulder height. With the palm facing outwards, and the last two fingers curled up, he presses the tips of his middle and index fingers to his thumb. _"No."_ From there, he pulls a card from his pocket and smirks, waggling his eyebrows as he signs, _"This one is, though."_

"That's not _fair_ ," whines John, drawing out the vowels of his final word. He sounds like a petulant child, and the quivering of his bottom lip only dots the 'I' on this comparison. "I don't fuck with your tattoos."

A huff of laughter. _"That's because, if you did,"_ Dave signs, pausing for emphasis. He points to himself, then to John. He slides his right hand—a loosely formed "one", the palm facing the ground—forwards, so that the back brushes against the palm of his flattened left hand. _"I'll kill you."_

After a few stunned blinks, John simply nods. "That makes a lot of sense."

 _"Of course, it does,"_ Dave punctuates this with a confident nod. _"Lots of things I say make sense. And... Don't get me wrong, but I think your coworker,"_ perhaps because of the nature of the language, there's no subtle way for Dave to say this. He points at you, trying to block the gesture by holding a hand in front of it. The motion is obvious, though, and you can understand the rest of the message as he continues, signing, _"Is watching us."_

"Of course, he is. Look around, Dave, what the hell is there to do right now?" John laughs.

Dave joins, and you don't believe you've ever heard him laugh before. It's actually a nice sound. It's a soft, gentle chuckle. If it wasn't coming from the planet's biggest tool, it might even be attractive. _"He's creeping me out. Tell him to stop."_

Unable to restrain yourself any longer, you interject. "You can tell me yourself, you ass-guzzling fucker. I can understand sign language."

 _"You seem lovely."_ Dave smirks, raising a singular brow. _"Now, you should turn around and mind your own business."_

"Sure." You shrug and do as told. Right now, you're not up for a fight. Besides, you're not about to pick one with someone a full foot taller than you.

 _"Then tell me what I'm saying!"_ Dave demands. He points to you, then forms a fist with his left hand. Beginning with the pinky, the fingers flutter outwards, eventually reforming a fist. The index finger never moves. This motion is followed by another, wherein his flattened left hand moves in front of his nose in a slight oval. You get the message. It's crude, but perfectly understandable.

"You called me a fart-smeller."

 _"Yeah! You smell farts!"_ Dave smirks, acting as if this is the cleverest insult of the century.

You, being the adult of the situation, simply nod. "Lovely. Thank you, mister Strider, for sharing that with us. I'm going back to reading my book."

 _"You do that!"_ While you didn't think it was possible, his smirk grows cockier. This thus disproves all known laws of science, and you can feel the universe unravelling around you.

Of course, this is only figurative. And, even if the universe _was_ disassembling itself, you wouldn't care. You're invested in your book, and you'll be damned if you let some uppity prick get in the way of you and this juicy scene of pure romantic beauty. Truly, this is the epitome of existence. There is nothing better than a perfect romance novel, and the setting you're in only dulls the experience a little. It's like a coffee that's not exactly hot, but it hasn't cooled enough to be disgusting, either.

(Only on rare occasions do you admit to being mildly embarrassed of your indulgences.)

"Hey! Karkat!"

For the second time in the past hour, you slam your book against the counter. "WHAT!?" you thunder. "What in the name of the un-fucking-knowable powers that bond this repulsive corporeal realm together do you _want_!?"

"That one was good," John hums, his usual trademark grin plastered across his face, "I was just wondering if that's a Lalonde book that you're reading."

"Well, what if it is? Why would you care? You've repeatedly told me that these books are, quote unquote, yucky, sappy shit." You roll your eyes as you sarcastically ponder John's eloquence.

He, meanwhile, charges blindly onwards. "Rose is Dave's cousin."

"WHAT!?" Your jaw drops.

This blond bastard might be the last person you'd ever spend time with in the event of the sudden disappearance of all reality, but his relationship to Rose might just be his ticket to a one-way decency train. _"She's my cousin."_ He shrugs.

You scramble over the counter, your nails (claws?) scraping against the glass in your haste, and stand before Dave. "So, you could..." You tap your claws (a more apt description, in hindsight) together, producing a dull clacking noise. "You could get me a signed copy of the book?"

Dave gags. _"I'm not touching that slop with fifteen layers of gloves. You can go talk to her yourself."_ He pulls a phone from his pocket and taps at the screen a few times. Then, with all the emotional investment of a crushed cardboard box, he hands it to you, signing, _"Put your digit in and I'll hand them over to her."_

"Thank you." The response is sincere, though it doesn't change your feelings for the recipient. You still hand back the phone in a way that dramatically decreases the odds of him touching you. After all, the douchebag might rub off.

 _"No problem."_ He pockets the phone and waves his hand dismissively.

It's not official sign language, but it gets the point across. You're aware enough of the situation to get the basic message, and you quickly return to your post at the register. From this point, onwards, you also remain glued to your book, doing your best to refrain from looking at John and Dave's discussion. He might be a total tool, but he's now a tool with connections, and you're not going to blow your chances at getting a signed copy of _Wizards in Heat II: The Golden Cock_.

* * *

Come nightfall, Dave still hasn't left. It's a puzzling thing to you, seeing as he's one of only two Inkbound employees, but you're not going to question it. You don't really care enough to do so. You're just happy to be locking up for the day.

"You know, I've told Rose a lot about you," John hums, passing you as you check to make sure the store is sealed shut, "She says that you and Dave would make cute boyfriends."

You respond with a disgusted scoff. "Just because my favorite romance author says that I'd be cute with her cousin doesn't mean that I'm going to start dating a fuck-waffling douche-nozzle, John. I have standards."

"Says the dude whose favorite book is _When Magic Gets Sexy_."

"That is a great book, and there are many poignant political statements," you snap. "You _still_ think that _Con Air_ is a good movie, when it's actually a fifty-ton load of shit-spewing ass."

"It's Nic Cage, which automatically makes it good."

You roll your eyes and run your fingers through you coarse, wiry hair. "Look, I'm not getting into this shit with you, Egbert. Look at the fucking sky. You see those stars? They say 'Don't start a pointless fucking fight with the black-haired twit.'"

"Really?" John stops and squints at the sky. He removes his glasses, wipes them off, and seems to look harder afterwards. "I don't see that, but I do see 'Sore loser' written up there."

"Who would that be? Me, or you?"

John shrugs. A wry grin flashes across his face, highlighting his dimples. "Probably Dave."

"Well, that's something we can both agree on."

"What's your problem with him, anyhow? He's never done anything to you."

You shake your head, trying your best to convey a sense of disbelief. "He's annoying, and he's the perfect example of why human males are so goddamned weird. He wears shades indoors, for fuck's sake! Who the fuck does that!?"

"Dave." John responds matter-of-factly, punctuating his statement with an indifferent shrug. "Anyhow, this is my street. I'll talk with you later, Karkat."

"I hope not," you jest.

Laughing, John punches you on the shoulder. It's not exactly a hard punch, but it's not a soft one, either. It'll probably leave a slight bruise in the morning, but you're not complaining. "Don't get yourself worked up too much, your asshole will get stuck if it's too tight."

"That's fucking disgusting." You frown, though you're amused. It was a good joke, as John's can sometimes be. (The keyword being "sometimes".)

"Whatever. I'll get you and Dave together eventually," John says, walking backwards so that he can wag his finger disapprovingly in your direction. "I've got two hundred dollars on that bet, and I don't have enough money to pay Jade!"

"Start saving up, then," you call out, turning away to walk back to your place.


	2. Bus Stop

Wednesdays are solo days. You run the entire shop by yourself, though it's not a particularly difficult thing to do. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you're starting to believe this entire shop is a front. You're not sure what you're fronting for, but you're fronting for _something_.

Whatever the case, it looks like Dave didn't get the memo, because he's wandered into the place like a confused, lost puppy. A puppy with the face of a douche and the attitude of a jackass. So, perhaps, maybe more along the lines of a very, very ugly puppy.

"We're closed," you lie, "Get out."

He shrugs, pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket, and sticks one in his mouth. He doesn't light it, but he _does_ wave the opened carton in your direction.

You refuse. "I'm not taking one of those carcinogenic human leaf-rolls. Fuck those. You keep them to yourself, and get the hell out of here if you're going to light it!"

Another shrug. After pocketing the cigarettes, Dave begins to sign. _"I wasn't going to light it. You need to chill."_ He smirks. _"You're a mean cashier. Did you know that?"_ To signify a question, his brows lower slightly. He opens his mouth a bit, and, in a quirk you suppose is unique to him, he holds his hands a bit closer to his body. As opposed to the usual, flowing language he'd been using before—a sort of sign that swept all around him, seemingly encompassing the entire space around him—this is tight and rigid.

Out of little more than sheer boredom, you decide to try your hand at sign. You're rusty, seeing as it's been a few months since your last class, but you're proud to say that you manage. With a flattened right hand, you twice touch your fingertips to your forehead. _"I know."_

 _"I could complain to the manager,"_ Dave points out, returning to his usual form of sign. At the end, he adds in a surprisingly loud, whooping laugh. Clearly, he's amused by his own joke. _"What gives? You're not as much of a jerk to your other customers."_

You shrug. Having had your fill of experimentation for the day, you return to speaking aloud. "Nope. Just you." With that said, you pull a microfiber cloth from a drawer beneath the register. You wander away from the counter and begin polishing some of the crystal balls on display.

 _"Why only me?"_ He rolls his eyes as he makes this inquiry, you guess it's to offset the sincerity you can see beneath it. He's obviously bothered by your coldness towards him, which shocks you. Why the hell would Dave goddamned Strider care about how you, a short, chubby troll, perceive him?

"Because you're annoying." Again, you shrug. You study one of the orbs, your brows knitting together as you notice a small crack forming on its surface. You rush this particular specimen back to the counter, where you hide it beneath some old newspapers. (If the boss asks, it was an errant guest. You saw nothing.) "Do you have to interrogate me about this? Go do something stupid you your douchenozzle friends."

A quiet whine. Dave scuffs the toes of his ratty red Converse shoes against the hardwood floor. _"They're all busy."_ He frowns.

Somewhere, in your ice-cold heart, you feel a pang of guilt. A long sigh escapes you, and you set aside your cleaning to lean against the counter and glare at the blond customer. "Fine. I'll try and fulfil your banal conception of amusement until your godawful friends are free, but only if you promise to buy something."

Another frown. After a few minutes of digging around in his pocket, Dave pulls out a handful of assorted change. He counts it out, his tongue sticking slightly out as he does so, before proudly announcing, _"I have exactly three dollars. What can that get me?"_

"It gets you an hour of conversation," you growl, snatching the money away and stashing it in the breast pocket of your shirt.

 _"Do you have to talk so much?"_ He points to you, then shakes his fists back and forth. Each fist is held about level with his shoulders. _"You're loud."_

"Be glad I'm talking to you, shit-nugget." Looking like a haughty prince, you fold your arms across your chest and turn your gaze away from Dave. "For a so-called indifferent coolkid, you sure do care about a lot of inconsequential bullshit."

Dave groans. He lets forth a disgruntled huff, puffing his cheeks out as he does so. After a few seconds, he brushes back some of his hair, revealing a beaten-up cochlear implant. _"If anyone is annoying, it's you."_

"Fair enough. Still don't give a fuck." You turn your back to Dave, keeping your arms folded as you do so. "Has this been an hour yet? I sure hope it has, because it feels like an ass-ache of a century to me." Only now, in time to see his response, do you turn around. Nonetheless, you interrupt, speaking loud enough until his signing comes to a stuttering halt. "Out of curiosity, why bother signing if you can hear?"

A wry grin punctuates Dave's next statement. _"Why bother speaking if you can sign?"_

"Touché." You have to admit that his response is well-put, and it's got you stumped. Sign language is a damned gorgeous way to express yourself, and you've always admired it. Beyond that, there are nuances in it that can't be translated directly, much like any language. Honestly, you have no answer for him, and, perhaps for the first time since you laid eyes on Dave Strider, you start to reevaluate your initial impression of him. He's obviously smarter than he lets on. "Fine, you've got me interested. Care to tell me more, you fucking twit?"

He yawns and folds his hands behind his head, as if to give off a couldn't-care-less vibe, but you can see the spark in his eye. He's going to tell you his little story whether you like it or not, and you're starting to curse your innately helpful nature.

He begins with his name sign—a "D" handshape, the last three fingers pinched tightly together with the fingertips touching near the side of his chin—making a single, swift twisting motion. (If the handshape was a pinched "G", the sign would have meant "cool".) From here, he continues, his hands moving faster than you would have ever believed they could. _"I was born Deaf,"_ he signs the final word with a cocky smile and slightly puffed out cheeks. He's not shy about himself, you can say that much. If anything, he's proud. _"I got an implant when I was ten, but talking's never been my thing. No one told me I had to learn it, so I didn't."_ To add further meaning, he simply shrugs. An indifferent sound—a cross between a sigh and a whine—escapes him. _"John and I met in first grade. We wrote notes back and forth, and he helped me figure out how to interpret sound."_

"Fascinating." Though you say this with a tone of disinterest, you find that you really are captivated by his story.

His motions grab your attention and hold it in place. His expressions manage to make you feel more than you usually would in a conversation such as this. Honestly, now that you've said more than a few derogatory words to him, he's starting to seem like a vaguely decent guy. Not that he's any less annoying, but he's bearable. You'd consider asking him out to lunch if no one else was around.

 _"I'd better get back to work."_ He punctuates his statement with a curt wave. The edges of his lips flicker, turning briefly upwards, into a small smile. _"I'll catch you later, loser."_

"Whatever, jackass." You wave him along, though you also offer a small token of your appreciation—a similarly tiny smile. To his credit, he's killed a good amount of time, and it's made your usually boring solo day less of a mind-numbing shipwreck of triviality.


	3. Osono's Request

It snowed all day yesterday, and the roads are still slick with ice. The sidewalks have been transformed into little more than massive piles of packed snow blocks, discarded slush from the streets, and rough salt patches. Half of the town is closed due to inclement weather, and the streets are practically empty. The only car you've seen today is, ironically, a crashed snow plow. No one seemed to be inside, so you're assuming it'll be left in its place until later.

Conditions aside, you're still due for work. At least, you didn't get a call or an email telling you to _not_ come to work.

So, you headed into the frozen unknown. You've managed to get to the front door, and you've only fallen a grand total of ten times. Your entire body aches, but your empty bank account aches a bit more than your possibly sprained ankle. And, for all of this, you're rewarded with a simple sign taped to the front door. "Closed today."

After uttering a string of creative profanities, you consider your options.

You could go home, but you're already feeling the effects of what ten episodes of falling onto your ass on frozen solid asphalt can do to a troll. You could try to walk to the nearest clinic, but that's a solid twelve blocks away, which is actually longer than your walk home.

A heavy sigh escapes you, forming a thick cloud of condensation before your face.

Next door, the tattoo parlor is open. Inside, you can see Dave working on something. He's hunched over a drafting table in the back, his nose inches from the surface as his pen sweeps wildly across the page. The collar of his dark brown jacket is popped up, and a puddle of melted snow is forming on the floor beneath him. Normally, you'd never go inside such a place, but you know the only guy inside, and you're desperate.

You flatten out your wrinkled coat and limp inside, wincing as you lean weight on your left foot. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you can sue your employer. It's not like the Amporas really give a damn about the safety of their employees; if they did, they would have _fucking called_ to tell you to stay home. (You may not have hatched on Alternia, but you know for a fact that trolls were never meant to trudge through snow.)

As the door opens, a quiet beep echoes through the otherwise empty building. After it's sounded, the overhead speakers return to broadcasting some sort of strange station that only plays instrumental covers of pop music. Right now, it's playing a peculiar smooth jazz rendition of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun", and you hate it.

Dave doesn't notice your entry, nor does he seem to react to the auditory cue, and you're not about to point out your presence to him. For one thing, he's working. The second, and most important, reason for not making yourself known is that you're not up for getting into a discussing with him. You prop your sore leg up, onto the unoccupied half of the sofa, and lay back, eventually drifting off to sleep.

* * *

You wake up to a text from John, which unhelpfully informs you that work has been cancelled. You ignore it, and stretch your hands above your head, realizing at this moment that a bag of now-mostly-melted ice is set atop your ankle. The brown jacket Dave had been wearing when you entered is thrown over you, though it's not done in a very gentle way. It's haphazard, and most of it hangs off the side of the sofa. Still, there was effort.

Not believing this to be the work of what you still firmly, albeit less than before, believe to be a completely clueless douchebag, you look around. The building is still empty, and the only exceptions remain the same. Obviously, you're here. And, leaning against the counter with a look of bored indifference, is Dave Strider. The only difference you're aware of is the fact that the power has gone out, and it's freezing.

It's bright enough outside to illuminate the store, though, and the somewhat distant hum of a generator tips you off as to what's running one of the two tattooing stations, including the light above the chair.

"Fuck." You try to pull the jacket off of you, only to find that you're somehow tangled in it. The smell coming from it is oddly pleasant. Normally, you don't like the smell of cigarette smoke, but the coat's tobacco scent is offset by a strong piney aroma. Mixed in is a hint of mint and cocoa. It's nice, and you hate that you like it. Such a nice smell only powers your drive to get the jacket off of you, and your wild twisting and writhing comes to an end when you slide off the sofa, slamming face-first onto the floor.

Dave reacts with a startled shout, a noise that's nothing akin to any word that you know of. If you had to explain it, you'd go by its phonetic sound, roughly, "Blech-ACK!" By the time you've rolled over, he's standing above you, looking even more intimidating that usual. (Considering that you're little more than five feet tall, and he's at least six and a half feet tall, that means a lot.) With his head tilted forwards and his brows raised, he taps the side of his right hand against the flattened palm of his left. It's a swift, doubled motion, which looks a lot like he's miming a chef chopping ingredients on a cutting board. _"Are you alright?"_

"Fuck!" You scramble to your feet, your claws scratching against the black and white tile floor, before taking a step back. Your ankle lets forth a tiny twinge of protest, but it's better than before. "Fuck!" you repeat. Right now, your mind is coming up blank. This jackass has just helped you out, but you have no idea what you're supposed to do to reciprocate that.

 _"Sorry,"_ he rubs the finger part of a tight fist against his chest in a circular motion. A frown—an expression sincerer than you've ever seen coming from him—crosses his features. _"I fell in some snow on the way here."_ A nervous laugh. _"I think I broke the external parts."_

Now, you frown. You quirk your brows in preparation, but he cuts you off.

He scrambles back to his station, and returns shortly afterwards with something in his hand. A round electronic device, —a speech processor, per the type printed on its side—marred by a massive crack, and an oddly-shaped chirping thing. The item emitting the chirping noise resembles a behind-the-ear hearing aid on steroids, and that's the best description you can muster under the circumstances.

"Eh," he vocalizes, tossing the presumably broken parts onto the sofa, thus freeing his hands for signing. _"I've got another pair at home, but it's not here. I literally can't hear you. Sorry if I ignored you when you came in."_

Slowly, you nod. While you can easily understand sign language, you've never been comfortable doing it yourself. It's sort of like how some people can read a language better than they speak it, you suppose. Rather than embarrassing yourself, you pull out your phone and type up your response. When you're done, you turn it towards the expectant blond. "No one else has been in here, right? Are we really the only sniveling shitwads in here?"

 _"Yes."_ With his left hand balled into a fist, its fingers facing you, he bends his wrist. The movement looks like a nodding head, and he repeats it a few times for emphasis. _"Your ankle looked fucked up. I grabbed some ice from the lounge freezer and put it on it."_

"Thanks, asshole. What're you looking for? Some sort of groveling thanks?" You roll your eyes as he reads this statement, and a sense of (what you realize to be) misguided satisfaction wells up within you when he responds with an off-put frown. When he takes a step away from you, you congratulate yourself. You're going to college soon, after all; you can't have any shitty, douchebag-shaped distractions. "I guess I should thank you, though."

 _"Lovely."_ Dave offers a small, thin-lipped smile. _"I can walk you back to your place later, if you want."_

You nod. Admittedly, you'd like that; you won't let him know that, though. If he sees a crack in your armor, you're certain he'll wedge a knife in it.

Satisfied with your answer, he returns to the drawing table.

You occupy yourself by browsing through Tumblr, occasionally reblogging pictures of moss-covered castles and Irish landscapes.

* * *

Later, he sticks to his promise.

You've walked alongside him for the past twenty minutes or so in complete silence. His hands have been buried in his pockets, and you've kept your phone in yours. Now, though, you pull it out. You type in a simple message, "Are you following me, or do you live this way?"

Dave frowns. His brows furrow, and he stares at his feet for a few moments. After some thought, he answers. _"I live at the Lucky Estates complex,"_ he signs.

"Across the street from me," you type. At this point, you're unsure how he's lived this close to you without you noticing. Surely, you would have seen him exiting his building, or passing you on the street. When he nods to indicate that he's finished reading, you withdraw the phone to type another message. "I've never seen you around there before."

 _"I work long hours at the tattoo place. Most people are asleep by the time I'm back, and still sleeping when I leave."_ He shivers as a strong wind rushes past, bringing with it air cold enough to sting your exposed skin. He tugs at one end of his scarf to tighten it. _"I've never seen you around here. That doesn't mean much."_

You shrug. "I guess not."

At the edge of the sidewalk, you both stop. Though there aren't any cars within sight, you remain in place until the little man on the light turns green. Icy roads and skidding cars don't make for very predictable traffic patterns.

 _"Do you mind if I smoke?"_ Despite the question, Dave already has a cigarette prepared. It dangles from between his lips, and the lighter is held loosely in his left hand.

Figuring he'll light it anyhow, you shrug. "Go ahead and inhale all the toxic shit you want, asslord."

 _"Thanks."_ He touches his the fingertips of his flattened right hand to his lips, then moves his forearm, so that the hand follows it, down and away from his face. After a few tries, the cigarette lights, and he puffs on it for a few seconds before expelling a plume of smoke from his nostrils. _"We're here."_ To emphasize his point, he casts his eyes upwards, towards the streetsign.

You follow his gaze. You nod.

He offers you an awkward half-smile and a wave. _"Nice talking with you, Karkat."_ Before you can respond, he turns away.

You notice, however, that he gave you something you've never had before. He's given you a name sign. His left hand formed a "K", his right forms a "V", and he moves them in the shaking motion of the word "loud".

Perhaps he's just loose with his names. After all, spelling out your name would get annoying. You understand that. You also reassure yourself that this isn't a sign of friendship. Dave seems like someone too lazy to bother signing out names for people. He probably hands out name signs like a meter maid hands out tickets. There's no meaning to it; he doesn't like you. And you don't like him.

Still...

You have to admit that, deep down, there's a sense of happiness. At the very least, he plans on speaking to you enough to necessitate such a change. Logically, you're not supposed to like this development. You're going to be doing things with your future, and you can't have him getting in the way. Emotionally, though, you appreciate the basic meaning.


	4. Lady Eboshi

"Do you have to file your claws now?" John moans from the other side of the store. He's spread out on the sofa, his feet propped against the top of the nearby display case of fake wands. "Can't you do something else, like eat those grub-shaped candies?"

"Not after you failed to tell me work was closed _before_ I almost broke my goddamned neck!" You intensify your filing efforts, making sure that the noise produced is tenfold its original volume. John might be your friend, but you're not letting him off the hook for this mistake. "I spent a whole day with your fucking pit-lurk of friend!"

"Dave said you were actually pretty nice to him." John grins. It's a sort of knowing smile, —a smirk—which boils your blood. "Do you _like_ him?" His vocal pitch rises, bordering on high, to emphasize his undoubtedly stupid point.

As the adult of this situation, you simply rise from your seat behind the counter and walk outside. John, perhaps sensing that he's pissed you off, doesn't comment. He lets you leave without any interruption, and, when you step into the cool winter breeze, you're greeted with a familiar scent. The aroma of pine trees mingles with a slight hint of tobacco, and you immediately know the source.

When you turn your head, you find yourself staring at a confused-looking Dave Strider. His new speech processor is visible beneath his hair, though you'd expect it to be. As opposed to the last, which was colored to match his blond hair, this one is as black as the darkest night sky. Having noticed your gaze, he makes a poor attempt to cover the device, brushing a few more strands of hair over it before nodding towards you. _"It looks like your ankle is doing better."_ He twirls an unlit cigarette between his fingers after finishing this statement. His feet scuff the now-clear sidewalk.

"Mhm." You turn your face away from him. "Thanks for yesterday. I was kind of rude..." Maybe it's your conscience talking. "So... You fixed your implant?"

Dave nods. _"I hear you."_ After what looks to be a moment of vaguely serious inner debate, he lights his cigarette and sticks it into his mouth. From its pulsating red-orange tip, a thin line of smoke rises. It snakes into the air, spiraling and flowing like an untamed wisp. _"What are you doing out here?"_

"John was bugging me about you." To emphasize your point, you punctuate your statement with a grunt of annoyance. "He's got this bug up his perky ass about us getting together. Absolute bullshit, right?" you laugh.

He, however, remains silent. The expression on his face seems to falter, falling slightly. His shoulders tighten, yet they still fall. You've seen body language like this before, and it's after someone is kicked in the gut. His usual confidence has dissipated; now, he almost seems defeated. Yet, as soon as this registers, he returns to his usual self. He, too, laughs, though it seems a shallow parroting of your own. _"Yeah. Absolute shit."_

For some reason, you don't believe him. "You don't seem entirely convinced," you point out. You try to prod him, to pry him until he's willing to satisfy your latent curiosity. "What, were you in on the bet, too?"

 _"He has a bet!?"_ Dave's statement is made complete by his expression. His brows are furrowed, his mouth agape. He looks as if someone has slapped him across the face with a fish, then told him it was actually a wet shoe. What he doesn't look like, however, is a man about to give any worthwhile answers.

That won't stop you. "Of course not, you blithering wriggler bait. I mean, are you in on this, too?"

 _"I'm not in on anything!"_ Dave's jaw still hangs open like a faulty drawer. His eyes are wide, looking an awful like the tear-filled eyes of some disheartened anime character. _"I was just surprised you said anything about us."_

Surprise? That's not what it seemed like to you. "You acted like we had some sort of chance."

 _"I don't know what you're talking about."_ Dave huffs, then folds his arms across his chest. If you had to choose what he looks like, you'd pick a petulant child. He looks like a kid, who's just been refused some more candy at the store. Or, perhaps, he's the child caught red-handed in the jar of grub candies. Either works. _"Why do you care so much?"_

"I'm just wondering," you admit.

 _"Do you like me?"_ He doesn't ask this as a question; he intends it to be an accusation. And, in line with his intentions, you feel assaulted.

A grunt of annoyance. "I can't fucking stand you, Dave Strider!" you scoff. "I wouldn't date you if I got a million goddamned dollars for it!"

Again, you see a slimmer of disappointment. But, it's gone before you can definitely confirm anything. Again, he bounces back. _"Whatever. I don't care."_

With this, an awkward silence falls between the two of you.

You _could_ go back inside, but you're dreading what John will say. If he knows you're out here with Dave, he'll start toying with you like one of those goddamned purrbeasts. (A cat. In hindsight, you realize that these are called cats.) Then again, every passing second adds another umpteen pounds onto the weight in the air outside. As it is, there doesn't seem to be an easy escape either way.

You simply choose the most convenient way. You clear your throat and say the first thing that comes to mind. "You were working on something in the shop yesterday. What was it?"

Dave frowns. He looks at you, frowns, and seems to take a moment to recall what you're talking about. When he does, he offers a wide grin. It makes it seem as if nothing happened, and you're perfectly okay with that. _"Just a little design of mine for a tattoo. I'm thinking of getting another one."_

"Another?" Your brows furrow.

Likely sensing your confusion, Dave rolls up his left sleeve, stopping about halfway up his forearm. (It occurs to you that you've never seen his arms before.) Apparently, the red fabric hid a world of wildly twisting flame motifs, whose forms suggest landscapes akin to valleys and mountains. Layers of tattoos seem to be on his skin, stacked atop one another like old drawings. The most prominent visible design is on his wrist—a vinyl record, split in half, with motion lines that flow around and upwards, creating the outline for the flames behind it. You sense that there's a deeper meaning to it, but you're not up for pushing that point right now.

Instead, you offer your honest response. "Fuck. You're pretty good." Then, out of nowhere, you continue, blurting out, "I've always wanted a tattoo, but I've never known what to get. And I'm not a big fan of needles."

 _"People tell me I'm a good person to get a tattoo from, because I don't speak back. They can just talk about whatever sort of shit they want to."_ Here, he pauses. There's another moment of thought. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and rolls it between his fingers. After a few seconds, he replaces it and offers another of his increasingly familiar half-smiles. _"I can do one for you, if you want."_

Here, you should logically withdraw. You've never seriously thought about a tattoo, and all of your inner logic is screaming for you to jump ship. But, being who you are, you let your heart lead the way, albeit against your common sense's will. "Why the fuck not?"

 _"Cool!"_ Dave's eyes light up like a Christmas tree. His half-smile shifts to a full one, and the air of confidence around him swells to a new record high. As if he prepares for this sort of thing, he whips out a pocket-sized sketchbook and a pen. He begins drawing, the pen scratching across the page with rapid precision. As he does this, he hums an outrageously off-key rendition of a tune that's vaguely familiar to you, though you're not sure why.

"You don't have to do this right now," you grumble, thinking about how, if you were human, you'd likely be blushing. "Really. I have to go to back inside soon."

With both hands occupied, the most Dave can manage is a firm shake of his head.

"No," he seems to say, "I'm doing this now." You can picture it in your mind's eye—him, with his stupidly flourishing sign—communicating this to you with the shittiest of grins.

And, after a few minutes of silence, he shoves the notebook into your hands with a gruff grunt.

You look down.

A sketch presents you with a black-and-white image of a thorn-encapsulated sickle, around whose handle is coiled a length of thin parchment or silk. The material spirals outwards, creating a sprawling tangle of elegant lines, before arching above the blade, following its curve. Written in blocky, all-capital text is a Latin phrase, the meaning of which is a complete mystery— _Sine metu_. Helpfully, Dave's cramped, all-lowercase writing clarifies—Without fear.

You study it.

The detail is beyond what you've ever seen in such a rapid sketch, and the fact that Dave knows such as phrase further disproves your theory that he's a completely brainless oaf. As if this isn't enough to throw in your face in one day, however, lower left-hand corner bears some more tiny writing. His Pesterchum handle—turntechGodhead—and his phone number are also included.

(It doesn't slip by you that his phone number spells GET-REKT.)

 _"That's just a preliminary design. I'll polish it up later. The drawings transfer to the page below, so you can keep that one."_ With this, he offers another of his enigmatic smirks and a quick farewell salute. _"I'll catch you later. Pester me and tell me what you think, I'll send you the finished design."_ He clicks his tongue and shoots you a double-pistols-and-a-wink gesture before departing.

You, meanwhile, are wondering how your desire for a signed book has led to you possibly agreeing to get a goddamned tattoo. You carefully fold the page and slip it into your jacket's inner breast pocket for safekeeping.


	5. Invasion of Kushana

**\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **began pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

 **TG: oh my god did i give you the right handle?  
TG: hello? is anyone home? are all of the lights on at plaza del karkat?  
TG: has the power gone out there or something?  
TG: hello?**

 **CG: IS THERE ANY INSTANCE OF YOU NOT BEING A FUCKMONGERING ANNOYANCE, OR IS THAT JUST YOUR DEFAULT SETTING?  
CG: IT SEEMS TO BE YOUR DEFAULT SETTING. I'M AT FUCKING WORK, KINDLY FUCK OFF.**

 **TG: i'm at work too. but nothing's happening here so i *know* nothing is happening there  
TG: aka your workplace is boring as shit**

 **CG: EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. IT'S NOT SOME SORT OF ASS-SMACKING SECRET, STRIDER. CAN I JUST DO MY GODDAMNED JOB IN PEACE?  
CG: WHY DO YOU INSIST ON BOTHERING ME, ANYHOW? THERE ARE LITERALLY BILLIONS OF OTHER HUMAN BEINGS JUST LIKE YOU TO BOTHER ON THIS SPHERICAL WATER PLANET.**

 **TG: if this is a water planet then why are we not underwater?**

 **CG: I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR FUCKING SHENANIGANS.**

 **TG: yes you do. we both know you do**

 **CG: FINE. SO-FUCKING-WHAT IF I DO? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?**

 **TG: damn dude i just wanted to know if you wanted to go to mcdonalds with me**

 **CG: ...REALLY?**

 **TG: yeah really. i'm super fuckin hungry and i'm guessing you are too  
TG: if you want to come you gotta tell me what you want though  
TG: i'm already there so i'll just order you something and wait at the table with the least disappointment stains on it**

 **CG: I'LL TAKE A BIG MAC, SMALL FRIES, AND A VANILLA MILKSHAKE.**

 **TG: ha you're literally vanilla  
TG: sure i'll grab that for you  
TG: you know where it is right?**

 **CG: OF COURSE I KNOW WHERE IT IS. I'M NOT A FUCKING HELIUM-HEADED FIRE HYDRANT OF A TROLL.  
CG: JESUS. I'LL BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES.**

 **\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

You stumble into McDonald's covered in dust and wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before. Your hair is a mess, your eyes underscored by dark shadows, and your demeanor one of wholehearted couldn't-give-less-of-a-fuck. Today, you woke up three hours late, clocked in two hours late, and have been running on little more than a Five Hour Energy mixed with some shitty home-brewed coffee. For the past two hours, you've been dusting the store while contemplating how strange the human ritual of beating colorful cartoon character sculptures with sticks is. (You believe they're called piñatas.)

This McDonald's outing is nothing less than a godsend, even if it _is_ with the guy you're determined not to spend too much time with.

 _"You look terrible."_ Dave frowns, his brows furrowing as he sees you. Both of his hands form fists, with palms facing downwards, and tap together at the wrist. Then, with his palms held towards his chest, he moves both flattened hands like stepping feet. The final portion of his inquiry is a swift motion, wherein his places the tips of his right hand to his lips, then brings the flattened hand down, so that the back rests against the open palm of his left hand. A nonliteral but understandable translation of all of this is simple, _"How was work?"_

"Shit," you match his eloquence with a single word. "If I choke on this grease-trap of a burger, do I get paid workers comp?"

Dave laughs. It's a loud, booming sound, which draws the attention of everyone in the restaurant. _"Probably not."_ He shrugs, a small frown demonstrating that he seems to sympathize with your plight. _"I'm surprised you came."_

"I am too," you admit. "I was fucking hungry, obviously."

 _"Did you think about the tattoo?"_ The question is hopeful, and Dave's eyes look like a dog's just before you feed it. _"I did a better sketch."_ To prove this, he slides a far more detailed concept across the table, seemingly unaware of the grease stains the page on the other side of the spiral-bound sketchbook is picking up as it goes.

You mime intense studying of the picture, but your attentions are focused on Dave. With as much intensity as your false review of his sketch, he eyes you over. He seems determined to get this tattoo on your body, and you don't really blame him for it.

For one thing, it's a gorgeous design. Even for someone as picky about art as you are, you have to admit it has merit. The style is a fanciful mix of Japanese-inspired line art and standard etching practices. The writing is immaculate, seemingly too perfect to be done by a human hand, and the colors—the bright, vivid reds and soft, cool greys—are superb. It's obvious that Dave knows what he's doing.

"Damn." The awestruck vocalization escapes you before you even realize it's being said. By the time you're aware that you've even said it, you know it's too late.

A confident smile graces Dave's features. _"I might not be good at a lot of things, but I'm a damn good tattoo artist."_ A vigorous nod punctuates his statement, and he practically leaps over the table to point out a very peculiar aspect of the design. A small crab, its top red, its belly pure white, stands in the shadow of the sickle. It's completely dwarfed by the weaponized farming tool, but it's there, and it's bold enough to stand out. _"John said you're a Cancer, so I incorporated it into the design. It sounds corny, but I've always been a sucker for horoscopes."_

This newfound information is useless, but you're surprised by it. You'd always thought of Dave as a pretty straightforward guy, and you would have never put him in the same group as John has-to-check-his-horoscope-twice-a-week Egbert.

Then again, the two are friends.

"Ah!" Dave yelps, once against attracting the attention of everyone in the restaurant. You can only assume that, while he can understand speech, he's not great at gauging volume. At the very least, he's awful at figuring out how loud he's being. (You are, too; you don't have much room to judge.) _"Rose got back to me. She's in LA for a romance novelist conference, but she said she'll sign your copy as soon as she gets back."_

It takes to a moment to recall what he's talking about. Until now, you'd forgotten about that. You've had too much on your mind lately, and most of it has centered around avoiding a relationship with Dave admittedly-cute Strider. (After this thought, you mentally kick yourself.) "Thanks," you manage to mutter, still reeling from the fact that this douchebag has muddled your mind to this extent. "How much would the tattoo be?"

Here, Dave offers what you've come to consider a trademark of his. A nervous half smile, accompanied by a quiet hum, is _not_ a good sign for your wallet. Then again, your wallet is already dying a slow, painful death. Perhaps it would be best to just kill it in one go. _"I can't say for sure. If you want it to look exactly like this, maybe around $1000. I could bump it down for a friend discount to $800."_

Against your better judgement, you nod. "Whatever. It's a nice design, and I can't think of anything better to spend it on. I already live with my older brother and his boyfriend," you mutter, rolling your eyes as you mention your older sibling. (You love him, but he's an annoying prick.) "And does that mean we're friends, because I don't recall agreeing to that. That was not in the goddamned terms of service."

 _"You didn't read closely enough, then, bud."_ Dave grins, and, for some odd reason, you find yourself studying his teeth. In the few seconds you can see them, they seem healthy, albeit not perfectly white. (This is fine by you. Trolls have naturally dull yellow teeth, and you've never been fond of humans with white teeth. They seem skivvy to you.) They're a tad crooked, but you suppose nothing's perfect.

Why such thoughts are crossing your mind in the first place is a complete mystery; you can't help it, though. You suppose you'd think such things whether you wanted to or not.

"I guess not." You check your watch, though you already know the time—and the time is five-til-you-need-to-get-out-of-a-sticky-situation. "I've got to get back to work. Thanks for the chat, Strider."

 _"You can call me Dave."_ He winks.

You feel your stomach do a complete 180. By the time you're outside of the McDonald's, your back leaning against the glass around the children's play area, you find that your heart beats wildly. Your mind is racing, and you can't help but wonder if all this effort is really worth it.

What would be the harm in a stupid, experimental teenage romance? They do it in the human movies you watch all the time. Even troll romances play on it. Why not go with the flow?


	6. Solitude

John's been smirking at you for the past two hours, and you're ready to lunge across the counter and claw his stupid, perfect, icy blue eyes out. You want nothing more than for him to stop looking at you like he knows some sort of marvelous secret, and it's time you do something about it. You open your mouth, your eloquent explanation of your outrage prepared, only to be interrupted.

"I heard you're getting a tattoo from _someone_ ," he says, emphasizing his words with a mocking drawl.

"It's nothing special," you huff. And, to be frank about it, it's not! You're getting a tattoo, and it's because some blond asshole with a fine pouting face conned you into forking over the entirety of your bank account for something that will be etched forcefully onto your skin. "It's just a little tattoo."

"But it's a tattoo, and you wouldn't get it if you didn't _like_ Dave." John sings his odd song of satisfaction, seemingly overjoyed about this recent development. He revels in his chance to speak to you about it, and that's obvious by the massive grin on his face. "You'll have to sit with him for _hours_ , and it's not like you can do a lot more than talk to him. Just you and Dave. Dave. And you." He chuckles.

You groan. You feel as if you've been transported back to high school, when romance was the _crème de la crème_ of gossip, and any recent romantic developments were almost worthy of national news. (Almost. Fights were _the_ news.) It's even worse now, though, because nothing has happened yet. (You mentally kick yourself for adding the "yet" to the equation.) "So?" you demand.

John, as you'd expect, answers. "It's just interesting. That's all."

"You're going around like it's going to solve world peace, you poop-slinging buffoon."

"It might!" chirps your coworker, his grin widening to seemingly inhuman proportions. "Have you ever thought about it?"

"About me and the blond douche?" You scoff, turning your noise up at the proposition. Deep down, though, you know that you _have_ thought about it. Your lie is huge, and you know it. But, in the sake of maintaining your standing, you continue, "Never in my goddamned life! I'd rather choke on my own frothing, rabies-infested saliva."

"Saliva can't get rabies," John shrugs, acting as if he's actually interested in working. He picks up a crystal ball and stares into it, his face screwing into a contorted expression of concentration. "But," he announces, "I _do_ see love in your future."

"The day you see anything beyond your own languid ass-face in one of those glass phonies is the day I dump a whole two-pound bag of Grubby Gummies down my toilet," you grunt. "What the hell is with you trying to get Dave and I together, anyhow? Do you have some sort of perverted need to see us as a couple?"

"I already told you," John whines, "I have a bet! I get $200 if I win!"

"And you want me to act like some sort of robot to appease your fucking wallet? News flash! My wallet's fucking empty, too."

"But it's full of _love_ ," goads John.

You, at this point, let forth an exasperated yell. This manages to scare away the shady old man wandering around the store, though you're not too upset about that. You are, however, finished with John's shit. You gather up your things, put on your coat, and march purposefully towards the door.

As you reach for the handle, however, it flies open.

Not to your surprise, in rushes Dave. He looks extremely distraught, and there are hints of puffiness around his eyes. His nose is a faint pink, and it makes you wonder if he's been crying. Of course, if he had, that would invalidate yet another of your biases towards him, so this isn't good news.

It is, however, interesting.

You can't help but watch as he storms up to John, introducing himself with little more than a gruff huff of air. _"People are assholes,"_ he signs, his movements swift and passionate, _"I want to scream at someone, but I'd probably just get turned over to the police for disorderly conduct."_

"Dude, calm down." John frowns. His formerly relaxed attitude shifts, changing to concern. "What's up?"

 _"The asshole with a beard took another of my jobs. I had the design finished, and the customer loved it, but he said he didn't want me to be the one to do it."_ Dave rolls his eyes. _"He said he thought I'd mess up, and he wouldn't be able to yell at me. Well, the joke's on him. I didn't want him as a customer."_

"He sounds like a complete jerkass," you mutter.

Dave, to your mild surprise, seems to hear you. He nods, and offers you a brief hint of a smile. _"He was."_ He points to you, then transitions smoothly to touching his index finger to his forehead. In a singular, rapid motion, he flicks his wrist up and out, so that the finger points upwards. _"You're smart."_ As if an afterthought, he tacks on an addendum. _"Sometimes."_

"I'll take that as a compliment," you mutter.

John, meanwhile, offers Dave an energetic pat on the back. "Don't sweat it, Dave. Karkat's right. That guy was a piece of shit. Besides, isn't our alien pal here getting his own tattoo?"

 _"Yeah. He is!"_ Dave responds energetically, his signs moving in broader sweeps than usual. _"I'm really excited about yours, Karkat, it's one of my better designs. Maybe it's because you didn't give me a strict ruleset."_ A nonchalant shrug adds tone to his statement. A small smile adds emotion.

You force yourself to look away. You feign interest in a crack in the wood floor, and scuff the toe of your shoe against it.

"Oh," John sings, "Is someone getting nervous? Is Dave getting to you?"

"Ah!" Dave, too, vocalizes. A quick glance tells you that he, too, is grinning deviously. Perhaps he's in on it. _"I get to a lot of people, John."_ Your coworker's name sign is simple. A "J", signed in front of the mouth. Your best guess is that it symbolizes his buckteeth. _"I must be bothering Karkat, though. He's practically blushing!"_

"Trolls don't blush," you shout, defensively. "Look, if you're both going to crawl up my ass about this, you can get the fuck out of here."

"That's not playing nice, bud," John goads.

Dave laughs. He elbows John in the side, prompting a yelp from the raven-haired dork, before addressing you. _"Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I'll stop."_ Before he continues, he directs a pointed glare at John. _"And you should, too. We've bugged him enough."_

"Fair enough." With a small shrug, your coworker returns to organizing some of the gag gifts.

This leaves you to deal with Dave, who seems to have calmed down from his initial state of anger-bordering-on-frustration. "Thanks for shutting motormouth the shithead up."

 _"No problem. John's great, but he can get a little overbearing sometimes."_ Dave's expression, now, has turned to one of enigmatic indifference. His mouth is a straight line, his brows relaxed, and his eyes seem to show little emotion. _"I actually remembered that I came in here to ask you if you wanted to go to dinner with me tomorrow. It's strict business. I need to finalize the design and make sure that you're cool with a tattoo. They don't exactly wipe off easily."_ Here, there's a flicker of a smile, but the inscrutable expression returns afterwards.

"Why not tonight?" you inquire. If it's business only, you're free whenever. You're new here, so you don't have that many friends. Your brother is too busty fucking his boyfriend to bother with you, so you have all the time in the world to avoid going home. "I'm free."

 _"I'm getting fitted for a new speech processor, since the last one broke. Hopefully, that will make it less noticeable. The black one seems to bother people, probably because they see it more."_ Dave shrugs. After looking around, he leans his weight against a nearby filing cabinet. _"You're cool, though. You don't seem to mind either way."_

"I don't," you say. Not much has ever bothered you when it comes to people. You'll hang out with whoever strikes your fancy, mostly regardless of their abilities or quirks. You have, after all, been friends with a girl who had sixteen pet tarantulas. (Or, as those in school called her, "Spider Bitch.")

After a few moments of thought, you speak up once more. "You act like that's worthy of a fucking Nobel Prize."

 _"It could be,"_ Dave frowns. _"It's awkward, sometimes. I guess I'm just thinking about that now. You're new here, right?"_

"Yeah."

 _"Then I'll pick the place we eat. Some of the places around here aren't very nice when it comes to ordering without an interpreter,"_ Again, he frowns. He rolls his eyes, then buries his hands in his pockets. This seems to signal the end of his statement.

Thus, you say what you've been thinking of. "I guess it's the small-town setting. Skaia's not exactly New York City, asshat."

Apparently amused by your commentary, Dave responds with an Egbert-esque snort of laughter. He removes his hands from his pockets to elaborate, first addressing your commentary. _"You're witty."_ He glances away, focusing on his shoes, before continuing, signing, _"I guess you're single, too?"_

"Yeah. Why?" You freeze. Your heart begins to pound, each beat echoing in your ears. "Tomorrow is business, though."

 _"It could be."_ Dave punctuates this with a wry smirk, though it quickly fades without any positive response from you. After a solid minute of awkward silence, he backtracks. _"It was just a question. Don't worry about it. I was being nosy."_

"Okay..." You're skeptical of his response, but you're not willing to push him. For one thing, he seems uncertain of his initial intentions. Secondly, you're about to go to college in the spring. You can't bother with a relationship, especially one that will invariably end up being long-distance. (Unless you make it into Skaia University, but that's a long-shot, and you don't know where or if Dave is going to school.)

 _"So you're, what? Sixteen?"_ You're beginning to suspect that Dave uses humor to cover his tracks. His cocky smile is fake, and his air of confidence is flimsy enough for a newly hatched grub to see through it.

Nonetheless, you indulge his odd whims. "I'm eighteen, you asshole. And you're, what? Five?"

Dave responds with an offended huff, though his usual spunk seems to have died down. _"I'm twenty-one."_ His movements are more contained, keeping within a small space around him. His eyes rarely meet yours, whereas they'd formerly been focused on your gaze. Somewhere, buried beneath layer upon layer of forced disinterest, you wonder if he likes you. _"I have a degree in music, too, so suck on that."_

"I'd rather not," you answer succinctly. "Don't you have a job?"

 _"Shit!"_ Dave frowns. He lets forth a low expression of shock, then a brief wave. He dashes for the door, first running into it in his haste, before managing to exit the building.

When the door clicks shut, John speaks up. "That didn't sound good," he mutters.

"I just told him to go back to doing his fucking job," you grunt, "It's not like I insulted his family."

"Okay. Well..." The answer John provides is high-pitched, in line with what you've come to learn is his way of unconsciously saying that he doesn't believe what's being said. "Are you meeting him tomorrow? He mentioned trying to get together to discuss the tattoo."

"Yeah."

"I'd take him something." John's voice has returned to normal, and you relax your guard. You even allow yourself a snicker as he winks at you. "He might drop the price in exchange for a nice gift."

"Like what?"

"Juicy Juice brand apple juice is a surefire way to charm a Strider. I have had years of experience, and can thus vouch for this extremely effective means of bribery." John says this with such conviction that you, after fishing your phone from your pocket, set a reminder to grab two gallons of the named product on your way to tomorrow's dinner meeting.


	7. River Side

The restaurant Dave chose is some sort of upscale pizza place, something you'd never believe would exist. Now that you're here, though, you've once again been proven wrong. Posh Pizzas is the unwelcome lovechild of an Olive Garden and a Pizza Hut, and everything about it makes you want to throw yourself off a cliff.

The first thing you have to say about the place is that the pizza man outside is bothersome. His pepperoni eyes stare at you with the intensity of a thousand dying suns, and his mushroom-toothed smile crawls under your skin, feeling like ants skittering all over your body. You're certain that he will haunt your dreams tonight, stalking you in the night, a fork and knife ready to extract revenge for all his consumed kin. According to the flowery text on the base, his name is Peppy Pepper.

Murderous pizza aside, you've overdressed. You're walking into a mid-tier pizza joint wearing a suit, a tie, and bearing a whole gallon of apple juice. To say the least, you're uncomfortable. To be perfectly frank, you feel like a massive toad at a tadpole convention.

By the time you're inside, you've attracted confused stares from at least a dozen troll and human patrons of the establishment. When Dave whistles to draw your attention, the number of eyes on you triples. Perhaps it even quadruples. You wouldn't know, and it's not as if you're counting.

 _"From the thousand-mile stare, I'm guessing you didn't like Peppy Pepper outside."_ Dave offers an apologetic smile.

You, still feeling out of place and confused, simply nod. "He's going to strangle me in my sleep with a length of layered cheese," you say, matter-of-factly. It's more than a dig at a hideous affront to mankind (in the form of molded plastic), it's also an honest statement. As senseless as it sounds, a small part of you truly believes that you're on a plastic pizza-man's hitlist.

 _"I eat here at least three times a week, and I'm not dead yet."_ Dave shrugs. With the delicacy of a rampaging bull, he pulls off his left earpiece. After a few moments of fiddling with impossibly tiny controls, he sticks it back on and, in a complete non-sequitur, offers you a menu.

Naturally, you take it.

Dave, being who he is, waits until you've opened it to point out the entirety of the sandwich menu. _"Don't get any of those,"_ he signs. He grimaces as he rubs his stomach, using a circular motion, with a claw-like hand. _"Disgusting."_

"I could have figured that out from your fucking obtuse commentary," you mumble.

 _"I'm just trying to be helpful,"_ Dave whines.

Around now, a disinterested waitress greets you. She asks what you want to drink. You order some water, while Dave orders a lemon-lime soda. He doesn't bother signing; rather ineloquently, he simply jabs a finger at what he wants to order.

Then, the two of you are left to wallow in awkward silence.

After a while, you speak up. Figuring that being uncomfortable while conversing is better than feeling like a complete loser, sitting across from someone at a restaurant and not even _trying_ to make small talk, you open the floodgates on your filter. The first stupid, intrusive, and inappropriate question to come out of your mouth is something you've been itching to ask Dave for a while. " _Can_ you speak?"

Dave shakes his head. _"I already told you. I never learned how to. I'm not interested in it, either."_

"But you _could_ if you wanted to?" you press.

He nods. _"Since you're so interested, I know how to say one word."_ Here, Dave punctuates his sentence with a long pause. A knowing smile spreads across his face, and you can already tell this isn't going anywhere meaningful. A deep breath in. Then, in a surprisingly quiet voice, Dave mutters forth a single, monosyllabic word. "Shit."

"That's it!? You goddamned piece of—. What the fuck?"

 _"It's fun to say."_ Dave nods solemnly, as if he has dropped some of the deepest truths you've ever heard from a human being. Unfortunately for both him and you, he has not. He's simply cussed aloud. He holds his left hand in front of him, the index finger pointing upwards, and moves forwards, towards you. As it moves, the finger bends, forming the shape for "X". The literal translation would be "I ask you," but you take it to mean something more akin to a smartass statement such as, _"Hey! You've been asking me rude questions. I'm going to ask you rude questions!"_

"Hm?" You quirk your brow, raising the left higher than the right. "What?"

 _"You understand sign language. Why don't you use it?"_ A question is indicated by the furrowing of his brows. He folds his arms across his chest, signaling that he wants you to answer, and leans his head back a bit. "Huh?" He prods you further.

You have nothing more to offer than a shrug. "I don't know?" you grunt, scrambling for some sort of answer. Knowing Dave, he won't leave you alone until you come up with an acceptable response or a reasonable excuse. "I don't like all the fucking inflection. And those facial expression things are weird. It's also a human thing, so I end up jabbing myself with my claws."

 _"Just like John,"_ Dave frowns. He rolls his eyes dramatically. Then, as if drawing the ire of the entire restaurant once wasn't enough, he does it again. "AH!" he exclaims, his sudden outburst causing you to jump. He points to you, then moves his hands—each with the index finger pointed inwards, towards one another—like feet pedaling a bicycle. As he does the latter motion, he puts the tip of his tongue between his teeth. _"You sign lazily."_

"Weren't we here to discuss a tattoo?" you practically yell, desperate for some sort of end to this nonsensical runaround.

Dave freezes.

The waitress arrives once more, and both of you place your orders.

Only after the waitress is gone does Dave continue. _"This will be easier to explain in Pesterchum."_

You nod.

* * *

 **\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **began pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

 **TG: the final design is finalized and i have a copy for you to take home with you  
TG: but i won't actually be able to do it for another six months**

 **CG: WELL, SHIT! IN THAT CASE, I COULD EASILY JUST DECIDE TO SAY "FUCK YOU, LOSER" AND CANCEL MY PLANS.  
CG: WHAT'S WITH THE WAIT, ANYHOW?**

 **TG: i am an amazingly popular dude. everyone wants me. artists want to be me.  
TG: tattoo parlors fight tooth and fuckin nail to have me on their lineup of artists**

Upon reading this explanation, you scoff. Nonetheless, you don't doubt it. If his tattoos are as good as his designs, you might even agree with such outlandish statements. He's got talent; that much is safe to say. On the other hand, you doubt tattoo places are actually clambering over one another to hire him. He's working at a relatively unknown place right now, and you can't exactly see him turning down bigger, busier, and higher-paying parlors to work for a place that just opened a year ago.

 **TG: don't scoff at me you rotten apple fucker i am skaia's premier tattoo artist**

 **CG: REALLY? I'M TOO FUCKING HUNGRY TO QUESTION THIS OBVIOUS PILE OF STEAMING, ODIOUS BULLSHIT, SO I'LL AGREE. BEGUILE ME WITH YOUR VALIANT TALES OF USING AN ELECTRIC DEVICE TO REPEATEDLY STAB PIGMENT-LADEN NEEDLES INTO THE SKIN OF PAYING CONSUMERS OF ALL WALKS OF SKAIAN LIFE.**

 **TG: you sure do type fast**

Dave punctuates his statement with a laugh. You look up just in time to see a flash of his smile, and his stupidly perfect imperfect teeth.

For some reason—and a reason that that completely escapes any attempts you might have at a logical explanation—you want nothing more than to pap him on the cheek. You want to run your fingers through his hair, which looks damned soft, and inhale his stupid, lumberjack-hipster-tobacco-smoking-asshole scent. You want to know more about him, and, frankly, all of this terrifies you.

This isn't how the romance novels go. It's supposed to be that you meet the person, or troll, of your dreams. They sweep you off your feet and whisper sweet, protective incantations in your ear at night, their robes engulfing you, like swaddling, as you lay beside them in a magically summoned romantic windstorm. (Wait. No. That's the plot of the original _Wizards in Heat: The Fuckening_.)

Dave whistles, bringing the careening train wreck of your mind to a screeching halt. You look at the phone, which now bears a new message. it peers at you. The angry, red text.

 **TG: earth to karkat they've delivered dinner and you still haven't responded  
TG: i'm giving you a copy of the design and you can keep it to make sure you're okay with it being permanently branded onto your weird grey troll skin for the rest of forever**

Abandoning Pesterchum, you respond aloud. "How generous of you, to provide me a copy of the design I'll be paying you to put on my body. Perhaps, just to spite your vile, over-hyped douchebag personality, I'll get it tattooed on my ass."

Dave smirks. He licks his lips seductively and winks at you before sending his response.

 **TG: maybe i think that's hot  
TG: you don't know my kinks you don't know me**

"If that's a kink, then I will have to politely decline anything that involves you getting near any part of me with a needle," you mutter. You know he's not being serious, though you find yourself deriving pleasure from playing along with his charade.

Judging by the smile on his face, he also gets some sort of sick kick from it.

Thus, even as dinner is served, you continue in this manner. Back and forth bantering and pestering. You say something stupid, and he one-ups you. Thus, you must reciprocate his absolute batshit fuckery with some sort of bullshit of your own. This creates a seemingly endless cycle of bullshit, and, against all reason, you find it enjoyable. In fact you find that you're having fun. By the time the night is over, you've laughed more than you believe you have in the past two years.

And, while you can't speak for Dave, you have a hunch that he also enjoyed himself. At the very least, he was distracted. That much is made obvious when your phone rings at 11:59 pm, its screen displaying a simple message.

 **TG: shit i never stopped pestering you god fuckin dammit fuck shit damn  
TG: later loser**

 **\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**


	8. Mononoke-Hime

You have one day off per week. The exact day varies depending on the flow of customers and whether or not there's a major holiday, but you're guaranteed at least one day off for every seven days you work.

Not that you have much to do. You know few people in Skaia, and you're not comfortable going the usual routes to get new friends. Clubs aren't your style, and you're not about to sit and hang out at local dives like some sort of parasitic hipster.

On this particular day off, you find yourself itching to go somewhere. You want to go to the mall, but it's pretty far away, and you don't have a car. You also don't feel like dealing with public transit. So, you opt to walk to work. You enter, and find John re-shelving stock in the front. A pile of novelty pranks in shitty cardboard boxes sits on one side of him, and a stack of build-it-yourself fantasy-themed models are on the other.

Clearly, he's too busy to drive you there. (You've always hated riding with John, anyhow. His car is dirty as hell, and you usually have to move at least two empty Starbucks cups before you can sit down.) Still, you ask. "Have a minute, fuck-tooth?"

John turns, smirking at the nickname. Not to your surprise, he shakes his head. "I'm busy, and I want to actually clock in some hours. Dave is free today, though. He can take you."

At the mention of the blond-haired human, you wrinkle your nose. "Ugh. Maybe I'll just go binge on Netflix," you huff, burying your hands in your pockets as you turn away. "Thanks for the info."

"No problem." By the tone of voice, you can picture the dorky grin on John's face.

Despite your harsh words inside, however, you still _want_ to go somewhere. You've spent the past few days off alone, and it's grown tiresome. Beyond that, you want to at least try and meet a few people. You're not going to be the one loser of the Vantas family. You are _not_ going to die alone, and you're not going to let Kankri steal the dating glory.

With a great deal of reluctance, you pull out your phone and send a text.

 **YOU: THE BLACK-HAIRED NEMATODE FUCK TOLD ME YOU'RE OFF TODAY. ANY CHANCE YOU'D BE ABLE TO DRIVE ME TO THE MALL?**

The response comes quickly, almost as if he was waiting for someone. (Certainly, not you, though.)

 **DAVE: For what? Got a hot date with a buxom troll babe? ;)**

 **YOU: YOU'RE A SKIVVY, WANDERING-EYED LITTLE PERVERT, DAVE STRIDER. NO. I JUST WANT TO GO DO SOME CHRISTMAS SHOPPING. OR HOLIDAY SHOPPING. WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CALL IT NOW, THANKS TO THE "WAR ON CHRISTMAS".**

 **DAVE: ... Please tell me that's a joke. I'm not sure I could handle if it's not.**

 **YOU: OF COURSE, IT IS, YOU PEA-BRAINED SHITSTAIN. NOW, CAN YOU USE WHATEVER SORT OF UNDOUBTEDLY UGLY EXCUSE FOR A MOTOR VEHICLE THAT YOU DRIVE TO TAKE ME TO THE MALL, OR SHOULD I JUST CALL UP A TAXI?**

 **DAVE: You're really mean, dude. Chill it with the insults.**

 **YOU: WHAT? YOU CAN'T HANDLE SOME BABY-TIER BANTER?**

 **DAVE: I'm more tempted to call it vaguely offensive shouting than friendly banter. I mean. Banter is like, "Ha ha. You're a buttface. But you're *my* buttface." You feel?**

 **YOU: NO, I DO NOT FEEL. NOR DO I WANT TO FEEL. ANYTHING INVOLVING YOU IS SOMETHING I WILL NEVER PLACE ANY OF THE EXPOSED FLESH OF MY HANDS AGAINST. I'M DEADLY AFRAID THAT YOUR DOUCHEBAGGERY WILL RUB OFF ON ME.**

 **DAVE: Harsh words. But, I am a *good person* and will do a *good deed* by taking you to do Christmas shopping for your imaginary friends.**

 **YOU: THEY'RE NOT IMAGINARY. YOU CAN'T CALL ME OUT FOR BEING A JERK AND THEN BE AN ASSHOLE. THAT'S SOME TWO-FACED BULLSHIT.**

 **DAVE: Not my prob, Bob. Meet me at my apartment. Lucky Estates, north building, 413.**

 **YOU: I GUESS I OWE YOU A THANK YOU.**

 **DAVE: Duh.**

 **YOU: FUCKING *RUDE*.**

By the time you've sent this final text, you've arrived back at the apartment complexes.

The building is large and ugly, just like yours. The bricks have been painted grey, though the color is starting to peel; you see the faded red beneath. Between two buildings—each fairly sizable—is a winding staircase, with a slate overhang to protect its users. A landing marks each floor. As you make your way onwards, you also realize that large red numbers, placed beside each landing's singular entry door, also demarcate the level you're on.

Following Dave's instructions, you enter the northern building on the fourth floor. You work your way down the narrow hallway—with its bland, boring ash grey walls; cookie-cutter light brown doors, each with the same silver handle; and, its shitty abstract art—passing a grand total of five rooms before you find Dave's, at the very end of the hallway.

The numbers are etched in white, onto a placard on the door (just above the faux mail slot), and underscored by a piece of plain white cardstock. Written on the white surface is a simple message, which is slotted into the place beneath the numbers— _Occupant: David Joseph Strider_. Beneath _this_ , a plain piece of printer paper is taped to the door. Angry, angular red writing covers its surface, and an arrow point to a button taped next to it punctuates the statement.

Deaf dude inside, please ring bell for complimentary laser light show.

While you might be an asshole, you're not a complete social menace. You abide by the odd request, press the button, and wait.

Within seconds (again, as if he's been anxiously awaiting you, or _someone_ ), the door opens. This reveals the answer to the nonsense on the door, as you can see various haphazardly wired red lights flashing throughout the tiny studio space. Beyond this, you see _him_ , and he looks as if he's dressed for _someone_. Your mind reels, trying to figure out what the hell he's doing. What sort of not-completely-wannabe-detective-level-eccentric bastard wears a goddamned _suit and tie_ to the mall?

"Were you... going somewhere?" you sputter, letting your thoughts leave the silent realm of your mind and enter the waking world. "I mean, what sort of shit-fondling hell spawn wears a _suit_ to the goddamned mall?"

Dave shrugs. The indecipherable expression on his face doesn't change. _"I've still got to grab my wallet and put on my shoes."_ His eyes, which had formerly been avoiding you, meet your gaze briefly. He gestures for you to come inside. _"Come on."_

You obey, and find yourself stepping into what you can only describe as the wet dream of every cleaning infomercial set designer in the history of infomercials. You can't vouch for the cleanliness, or lack thereof, for the carpet, though you have a creeping suspicion that its light brown surface isn't supposed to have spotty splatters of a variety of darker colors. Enough dust has settled on every possible surface that, in many places, you can actually see it. You don't even have to be that close. You can see the dust on top of the television at the _back of the goddamned room_. Clothes are strewn like shitty, dirty confetti. Trampled paper and discarded art—with, in some cases, the designs peeking out from behind the crumpled remains—litter the space. Clearly, Dave Strider is one lazy, messy motherfucker.

Or, as a voice in the back of your mind points out, he might not be as put-together as he makes himself out to be.

You prefer the former explanation; it makes you less inclined to like him or sympathize with him.

"What is this?" you grunt, "Some sort of dumpster fire?"

Dave responds with a nervous laugh. He pockets his wallet and slips into a pair of black combat boots before turning towards you. _"It kind of is."_ He claps his hands together, though his right hand stays in place, flattened at chest level, before moving his left hand (with palm facing upwards) forward and off to the side. You've seen many people do this, regardless of their knowledge of sign language, and it still has the same meaning. _"Let's go."_

It's a cherry red Impala, probably from the early 2000's. As Dave points out, and as you experience firsthand, its heating system has long since broken.

Otherwise, Dave's car is, surprisingly, immaculate. It's almost as if he's more accustomed to living in a car than an apartment, because the entire thing is spotless. Like some sort of soccer mom, he's even got a little plastic bag hanging in the back for trash.

There are personal touches, too. A lucky golden poo is glued to the dashboard, in line with the center of the steering wheel, and (to your surprise) a tiny, beaten-up silver cross hangs from the rearview mirror.

Dave, being focused on the road, hasn't spoken (or signed) much to you.

And you haven't had any bright conversational ideas.

Even as you pull into the parking lot of the mall, a solid twenty minutes' drive later, it's Dave who has to start the discussion. He points to the car, then provides you with its name. He spells it out, letter by letter, but not in a slow go-at-your-pace sort of way. Like everything else, it's a rapid-fire marathon of letters, and you're glad you know your ASL alphabet as well as you do. Otherwise, you'd be lost. _"Its name is Carlton. Like a car."_

"That joke sucks," you mutter.

Dave nods, seemingly acknowledging this fact. _"It's a good car."_

"Mhm." You bury your hands in your pockets and begin to go against the bitter winter wind.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Dave, following suit.

 _"Who are you getting gifts for?"_ Dave indicates his question by furrowing his brows and tilting his head back.

You simply shrug. "None of your business, you nosy fuck. But, I guess it's not worth arguing. John, my brother, his boyfriend, and I guess I owe you something."

 _"I don't need a gift,"_ Dave responds quickly.

You ignore the comment, continuing in silence until you get into the mall.

Unlike the one nearest to your home, it's an outdoor mall. The stores are more varied than your local mall, and there's more to choose from. Beyond that, Kankri and Cronus both want some sort of stupid healthy juicer. You're not sure what it's called, but you'll know it when you see it. And you _know_ that the only place that carries it in the whole goddamned town is in this mall.

Specifically, it's a place known as the _Guru's Garage_. The inside smells like every herb you could possibly imagine all at once, and the aesthetic is akin to what you'd assume an intoxicated hipster would deem to be cool. Then again, your brother is bordering on being just that.

You grab the juice, then get the hell out.

From there, you head off to find John's gift. Unlike your brother, his is easier to find. You drop by a shitty toy store, tolerate the borderline patronizing staff, and grab him a whoopee cushion. If he's as easily amused as you think he is, this should keep him entertained for at least a month.

It's only as you exit, and are swept up by the crushing rush of Christmastime shoppers, that something hits you like a sack of errantly thrown potatoes. Dave. You're missing Dave.

You consider calling for him, but wonder what the use of such an action would be. From what you understand, the louder a place is, the harder it is for a cochlear implant's processor to parse out what's important. Then, you'd just look like an insensitive jackass. You consider texting him, only to realize that your phone is dead.

A knot begins to form in your stomach.

You've never been very good with crowds. You can handle yourself in a small one, but this is beyond that. This is the rush of last-minute holiday shoppers, and everywhere you turn is packed.

You don't know anyone else in town besides Dave and John.

You don't know which way you came from.

You don't even know which way the exit is.

So, in desperation, you do the only thing you can think of. You begin to elbow your way through the masses, going against the primary flow, and occasionally stopping passerby.

"Have you seen a human male?" you ask them.

When they ask for clarification, you tell them what you know. "Blond. Deaf. Has a cochlear implant."

"I don't fucking know. The last time I saw him was when we got here," you eventually yell in desperation. This prompts at least five people to leave you where you started—alone, vaguely panicked, and completely lost.

You muddle through what, if your estimates are correct, amounts to around an hour and a half of this before you realize that you've made a complete circle. The cycle of bullshit is complete, and you're ready to slam your face into a wall. Just before you do, however, someone grabs your shoulder.

You react by turning around and punching, only to find yourself face-to-face with a now bloodied Dave Strider.

"Shit!" he exclaims aloud, parroting the (apparent) only word he knows how to articulate verbally. Then, he signs. _"What the hell was that for!?"_ He grunts, the blood from his nose transferring to both hands with his movements. Then, after wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve, he continues, his signing softer and slower. You guess this is the equivalent of people speaking in that sort of sweet, saccharine tone to children or upset adults. (You'd be more annoyed at this if it wasn't for the fact that you're realizing that Dave Strider is making an effort. He's actually trying to keep you calm, and it flies in the face of all of your expectations.) _"I've been looking everywhere for you."_

"Yeah, well, you don't just grab someone's shoulder when they're about to fucking slam their face into a wall," you counter.

He responds by tilting his head to the side. He frowns. _"The batteries died. I can't hear you."_

"Oh," you mutter, suddenly feeling like a tiny jerk of an ant.

Dave simply shrugs. _"I wouldn't hear you anyhow. It's too damn loud in here,"_ he confirms your theory. With his fingers touching his thumb, he touches his fingertips to his lower cheek. Then, with brows raised, his mouth open slightly, he moves his hand about an inch and touches his upper cheek. _"Home?"_

You nod vigorously, and allow him to lead you by the wrist to the car.

By the time you're buckled in and backing out, you find your eyes sliding closed. You're not surprised. Getting lost in a massive crowd of holiday hell tends to make one sleepy. You try to resist it, figuring that you'll have to walk home from Dave's, but end up succumbing to the gentle swaying of the vehicle.

You think you remember him taking off his jacket and throwing it over you at a red light.


	9. Angel Bell

You wake slowly.

The first thing you recognize as strange is the smell. The air reeks of cigarette smoke and pine wood. Then, there's the fact that you can hear people yelling. It's muffled, as if they're not in the same room as you, and the voices aren't familiar. Another strange fact is that your bedclothes are rough and worn out. Kankri would never let you keep such shitty sheets on your bed; he'd make you donate them so that he could buy newer, nicer-looking ones.

Nearby, someone whistles. Their notes are horrendously off-pitch, and you're unsure what song they're even trying to reproduce. The sound of sizzling bacon underscores the horrid pseudo-song,

When you open your eyes, it all comes back to bite you in the ass.

You realize that you're _not_ at home, and that you're _not_ in Kankri's apartment. You're in Dave's, as he'd ushered your sleep-deprived and shell-shocked ass into his apartment yesterday, after the ordeal at the mall. And, to prove this, Dave is only a yard and a half away from you, standing behind a kitchen island, as he dumps a heap of freshly prepared bacon onto a scratched, glued-together plate. A pair of thick glasses—oblong, with invisible rims—rests on the bridge of his nose.

When he notices you moving, he offers you a small smile. He sets aside the pan, shoving it carelessly into the nearby sink, before greeting you. _"I don't have any more batteries, so you're stuck either texting or signing for now."_ He punctuates this with an apologetic half-smile before moving on. _"Good morning."_

You groan. Looking around, you realize that you're in Dave's bed. A pillow and blanket are still set atop the sofa, and you can only assume that this is where he slept. A twinge of guilt elicits a tiny sigh. You, unwilling to try anything like sign language this early, simply wave. With your free hand, you comb some of your wiry hair from your face.

 _"I made breakfast."_ He picks up the plate and shows it to you before setting it back down. Then, leaning against the countertop like a seasoned patron of some kitschy old bar, he continues. He points at you. Then, his left hand forms a squashed "O" handshape, and he brings it to his mouth. From there, the hand flattens out. He presses the side of his left hand to his flattened, upheld right, and moves it in a forward slicing motion. _"Eat some."_

Feeling extremely awkward, you refuse aloud, saying, "I'd really rather not." Then, as soon as you've closed your mouth, you recall what he'd said only moments earlier. You fish around in your pocket for your phone, only to realize that it's gone. You're about to ask about this when Dave interrupts.

"Ah!" he loudly exclaims. He topicalizes the sentence, beginning, _"Your phone..."_ He holds his left arm horizontally, at chest level, with the palm facing downwards. Then, he touches his right hand, with its fingers pointing to the dirty floor, to his palm. The next two movements are swift and graceful, almost flowing together. It begins with an action reminiscent of him throwing something over his shoulder with his left hand, and ends with the fingers of his left hand ("V" handshape, palm down, with a swift, linear motion) sandwiching the upward-pointing index finger of his right hand. _"I plugged it in last night."_ From here, he simply gestures towards a stack of clothing.

Your phone sits on top, looking a lot like a lost hiker, Not wanting to seem rude by being a silent guest, you scramble for it. After unplugging it, you send Dave a text.

 **YOU: THANKS FOR ALL OF THIS, BUT I LIVE ACROSS THE STREET. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU NEED TO BRING ME TO YOUR APARTMENT FOR, YOU FUCKING MEATHEAD?**

Dave shrugs. _"You said you were just so fucking tired. I thought it would be better to let you crash here."_

 **YOU: ACROSS. THE. FUCKING. STREET.**

 _"It's cool. It's not like I rummaged through your pockets for space change."_ Apparently amused by his own commentary, Dave laughs. This time, it's a quiet chuckle, rather than loud and booming. Grabbing a literal handful of bacon from the plate, he waltzes towards you. Without hesitation, he sets his ass upon the open spot beside you. He eats the bacon all at once, taking bites from the haybale-like cluster as opposed to eating them one by one, and he doesn't notice your mild revulsion. He uses his free hand to hold his phone and respond to you without pausing his breakfast consumption.

 **YOU: WHY'D YOU DO THIS, ANYHOW? YOU BARELY KNOW ME.**

 **DAVE: You seem calmer in the mornings.**

 **YOU: THAT'S NOT MY FUCKING QUESTION, YOU SPONGE-BRAINED PUDDLE OF PISS.**

 **DAVE: There we go.**

 **YOU: ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION!**

He frowns. There's a pause, during which he consumes the last of his bacon. He wipes his hands on his pants, raises his hands to sign, and seems to decide otherwise. Lowering his hands, he begins to type. After a few seconds, you receive a response.

 **DAVE: ...what would you say if I said it was because I think you're cute?**

 **YOU: SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES OF, "FUCK OFF, YOU GODDAMNED CREEP." AFTER THAT, I'D ASK YOU IF YOU'RE ALSO FUCKING BLIND AND, IF NOT, IF YOU HAVE SOME SORT OF BIZARRE SEXUAL FETISH FOR INCOMPREHENSIVE PRANKS.**

"Oh." Dave says this aloud. He eyes you over, then sets aside the phone. _"I was just doing a good deed, I guess."_ His response confuses you, but you let it sit. You're not about to try and pry information out of a wary blond today, or, at least, not this early in the morning.

Bringing the fingertips of your flattened right hand to your lips, you move your hand forwards and out. The motion is done at the elbow, and your forearm stays straight. _"Thank you."_ Then, you return to texting your responses. For you, ASL grammar is much harder to act upon than it is to understand.

 **YOU: WELL, THANKS. I GUESS I OWE YOU SOMETHING, BUT I'VE GOT TO GET BACK HOME BEFORE KANKRI REALIZES I'M MISSING.**

Dave laughs nervously. _"You're not missing."_

 **YOU: I KNOW THAT, WHALE-FAT-FOR-BRAINS, BUT MY HELICOPTER BROTHER DOESN'T. I'LL SEE YOU LATER.**

As soon as you've sent the text, you gather your things and sprint. Nonetheless, it's not fast enough to keep you from seeing how Dave's attitude shifts. The last glimpse you have of him, he looks like a crestfallen, just-got-dumped teenager.


	10. An Omen to Ruin

You've always hated your brother, and you've always hated his bullshit-spewing boyfriend, too. Besides their godawful displays of constant physical affection, which often verge on the sort of shit love-struck high schoolers pull, they're...

Well, to be frank, they're assholes.

But, you're under their roof, so you can't do a thing about it. You've just got to put up with the constant whining about "how humans are below trolls" and similar assfuckery. If that wasn't enough, you're constantly being scrutinized by both of them.

Why are you working for _humans_?

Why are you hanging out with _humans_?

Why did you come back yesterday from a _human's_ apartment?

It all makes you want to strangle them with the most readily available length of barbed wire, but you can't. If you want a place to live, for the time being, you're going to have to suck it up.

And that's exactly what you're doing.

"I've met Dave before, and I can verify that he's a worthless human. I tried to get a quote for a tattoo for you, Cronus, and he just gave me this dumb, wide-eyed look." Kankri clicks his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly, "I'm amazed someone like Kurloz would hire him."

Cronus, apparently amused by Kankri's commentary, responds with a snort of laughter. He lights the cigarette dangling from between his lips. After inhaling deeply, he holds it between his middle and index fingers as he continues, "Maybe Gamzee hired him. That bastard's always been a bit short on IQ, you know."

You groan. "He's Deaf," you interject. "He probably didn't know what you were saying." You want to add something to the effect of, "you long-winded shit-fondling bastard," but refrain from doing so. Instead, you fold your arms across your chest and lean back, letting the soft sofa cushions surround you like upholstered quicksand. "Why do you care so fucking much, anyhow?"

"He's probably contagious!" shrieks Kankri, taking a step away from you. "He's unfit for the workforce, and I've already mailed a complaint to the store. I hope that Dave is the one who finds the letter, too, when it's delivered. Someone has to tell him he needs to be culled."

With the cigarette now back, between his lips, Cronus lets forth a snort of laughter.

Again, you groan. "Isn't Kurloz _also_ Deaf?" you inquire, your voice quieter than usual.

Kankri frowns. As if a switch has flipped within him, he immediately berates you. "He's _hearing impaired_ , and that's rude of you to say. Kurloz is one of my closest friends, and you have no right to compare him to... To..." He stammers. Then, finally, with nothing more than vitriol in his voice, he spits, "A _human_."

Of course, knowing your brother, you should have foreseen this. He's all about equality, but only if it's for trolls. He touts himself as some sort of messianic savior of the oppressed, but only if they're trolls. It's the most infuriating thing you've ever dealt with, but you can't say anything against it if you want to keep a roof over your head. So, you simply keep your mouth shut.

Say nothing. Do nothing.

And, as if the world is conspiring to take a massive dump on you, someone decides that now is the perfect time to knock on the door. You're fairly certain you know who it is, and your suspicions are further confirmed by Kankri's statement.

"Speak of the devil," he grunts, having looked through the peephole seconds earlier. He throws open the door, and you find yourself staring straight into the eyes of a certain Dave Strider.

Again, the world decides that inconveniencing you isn't enough. It wants blood. And it wants that blood in the form of your unending discomfort, because there's a wide, shit-eating grin on Dave's face. _"You left your phone at my place."_ After signing this, he produces said phone from his pocket.

Kankri immediately pounces. He slams the door shut and snatches the phone away from Dave, who now looks more bewildered than a deer in the headlights of fifteen trucks. "See," your brother thunders, "He stole your phone!?"

"No," you shoot back, forcing your voice to remain as calm as possible. You grab the phone from Kankri, then retreat back to the furthest corner of the room. "I left it at his apartment."

Kankri doesn't push the topic, but you can see the skepticism in his eyes.

Dave laughs nervously. He stares at you. _"What the hell is going on?"_ He doesn't sign it, and he certainly doesn't _say_ it, but you know that's what he's thinking. Somehow, in your gut, you know that that's exactly what he's thinking.

Cronus removes the cigarette from his mouth, extinguishes it between his fingers, and takes a massive gulp from the bottle of beer near his armchair. "Is this the fucker who's been screwing with your bro, Kannie?" He stands and moves towards Dave.

Between Kankri and Cronus, the poor bastard's cornered. Sure, _you_ know that a slight wind can bowl over Kankri, but he's a pretty formidable-looking guy. He's the near-opposite of you. Tall, broad shoulders, and a lean, muscular build. And there are few people you know who could best Cronus, a hulking pseudo-greaser with a knack for dirty fighting.

From what you know about Dave, you expect for him to fight back. You wait for him to retaliate, though you know it won't end well if he does.

That pushback never comes. Instead, he freezes. Even as Cronus pulls off the external speech processor and microphone, he remains as still as the most terrified statue you've ever had the misfortune of seeing.

"Didn't Kurloz say these things go for thousands?" Cronus mutters, spinning the heavier portion around by the cord like a yo-yo. "Whatever. Makes a cool toy."

"Don't do that," Kankri chides, snatching away the external components. For a second, you hope that he's going to be a decent person. Instead, he disconnects the two portions. After discarding the over-the-ear microphone, crushing it beneath his foot, he begins tossing the speech processor from one hand to another. "No self-respecting individual would dare use it again after _this_ bastard did."

Cronus nods slowly, acting as if this information is being expelled straight from the heavens, parting clouds with its sheer wisdom. Then, he turns to Dave. He grabs him by his chin, yanks his face so that Dave's wide, yet incomprehensible red gaze meets standard yellow troll eyes. In the case of Cronus, you're 100% positive that the look in his eyes is nothing less than the most disgusting, unfiltered vitriolic malice. "It's almost a shame, Kankri," he hums, sounding as if he's saying nothing more than a childish joke.

"What?" Kankri asks. By now, he's starting to lose interest in Dave. He's picking at the sound processor, and it seems that he's successfully peeled off the battery covers. At least, that's what you assume the small silver button-like objects at his feet are.

"If he was a troll, he'd actually be kinda pretty," Cronus grunts. He releases his hold on Dave, then knees him in the gut.

Not surprisingly, Dave drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. Still, he says nothing. He doesn't react.

Whereas Kankri's zeal for this is fading fast, Cronus is in full swing. He snatches the shades off of Dave's head, studies them, and laughs. "Damn. These things are the fucking ugliest pieces of shit I've ever had to look at," he scoffs, tosses them onto the ground, and crushes them beneath the heel of his boot. As Dave leans over to observe this, the foot moves upwards, its steel toe hitting Dave's chest.

The resultant thud of Dave hitting the wall is what convinces you to speak up. Still, you don't use your most potent insults. As much as you'd like to call him out as the douchebag he is, you still want to have a roof over your head at night. "You've picked on him enough, don't you think?"

"HEY!" Cronus thunders, spinning around to face you. "Who the hell do you think you are, Kar? You ain't bit shit around here, kid."

Kankri, drawn back into the fray by Cronus' exclamation, adds in his own shitty opinion. "Why do you care, anyhow? He's just a human."

"What? You don't have anything better to do than play with yourself and beat up people you know you'll win against, Cronus?" The words fly from your mouth seemingly of their own accord. You know they were a mistake, and you know this outburst is going to be lauded over you as a receipt of your own so-called "softness" for humans.

And, already, Cronus bears down on you. He jaw is set, his fests clenched. "What the fuck did you just say to me!?"

"Karkat!" Kankri reprimands you.

Cronus steps forward.

And, before his foot hits the floor, Dave grabs him by the back of his jacket. With more force than you could ever imagine being within Dave's capabilities, he slams your soon-to-be brother-in-law face-first into the wall. He digs his elbow into Cronus' lower back. Yet, as he does this, he remains as calm as he'd be on a short walk. But, after this, he freezes.

It's only a matter of seconds before Cronus realizes that any fight that Dave would have put up is gone. He lurches backwards, slamming his weight into Dave.

Predictably, the blond falls. He allows himself to be roughly grabbed by the shoulders and hauled onto his feet, then thrown, like a garbage bag, over Cronus' shoulder.

"I'll deal with this piece of shit," announces Cronus, a certain sort of twisted glee underscoring his voice, "You can slap some shit into your stupid brother."

"And I will," Kankri huffs.

He steps forward, towering above you.

Experience has taught you how to censor him. Yet, just before Kankri begins to speak, your eyes meet Dave's. Your stomach contorts itself into a tight, guilty knot. You bring your right hand, which forms a fist, to your chest. With the palm facing you, you move the hand in a few small clockwise motions. _"Sorry."_

Dave doesn't respond, though you expected as much. Still, it only adds another nail to your coffin of wallowing guilt.


	11. Nahoko (An Unexpected Meeting)

You've always hated your brother, and you've always hated his bullshit-spewing boyfriend, too. Besides their godawful displays of constant physical affection, which often verge on the sort of shit love-struck high schoolers pull, they're...

Well, to be frank, they're assholes.

But, you're under their roof, so you can't do a thing about it. You've just got to put up with the constant whining about "how humans are below trolls" and similar assfuckery. If that wasn't enough, you're constantly being scrutinized by both of them.

Why are you working for _humans_?

Why are you hanging out with _humans_?

Why did you come back yesterday from a _human's_ apartment?

It all makes you want to strangle them with the most readily available length of barbed wire, but you can't. If you want a place to live, for the time being, you're going to have to suck it up.

And that's exactly what you're doing.

"I've met Dave before, and I can verify that he's a worthless human. I tried to get a quote for a tattoo for you, Cronus, and he just gave me this dumb, wide-eyed look." Kankri clicks his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly, "I'm amazed someone like Kurloz would hire him."

Cronus, apparently amused by Kankri's commentary, responds with a snort of laughter. He lights the cigarette dangling from between his lips. After inhaling deeply, he holds it between his middle and index fingers as he continues, "Maybe Gamzee hired him. That bastard's always been a bit short on IQ, you know."

You groan. "He's Deaf," you interject. "He probably didn't know what you were saying." You want to add something to the effect of, "you long-winded shit-fondling bastard," but refrain from doing so. Instead, you fold your arms across your chest and lean back, letting the soft sofa cushions surround you like upholstered quicksand. "Why do you care so fucking much, anyhow?"

"He's probably contagious!" shrieks Kankri, taking a step away from you. "He's unfit for the workforce, and I've already mailed a complaint to the store. I hope that Dave is the one who finds the letter, too, when it's delivered. Someone has to tell him he needs to be culled."

With the cigarette now back, between his lips, Cronus lets forth a snort of laughter.

Again, you groan. "Isn't Kurloz _also_ Deaf?" you inquire, your voice quieter than usual.

Kankri frowns. As if a switch has flipped within him, he immediately berates you. "He's _hearing impaired_ , and that's rude of you to say. Kurloz is one of my closest friends, and you have no right to compare him to... To..." He stammers. Then, finally, with nothing more than vitriol in his voice, he spits, "A _human_."

Of course, knowing your brother, you should have foreseen this. He's all about equality, but only if it's for trolls. He touts himself as some sort of messianic savior of the oppressed, but only if they're trolls. It's the most infuriating thing you've ever dealt with, but you can't say anything against it if you want to keep a roof over your head. So, you simply keep your mouth shut.

Say nothing. Do nothing.

And, as if the world is conspiring to take a massive dump on you, someone decides that now is the perfect time to knock on the door. You're fairly certain you know who it is, and your suspicions are further confirmed by Kankri's statement.

"Speak of the devil," he grunts, having looked through the peephole seconds earlier. He throws open the door, and you find yourself staring straight into the eyes of a certain Dave Strider.

Again, the world decides that inconveniencing you isn't enough. It wants blood. And it wants that blood in the form of your unending discomfort, because there's a wide, shit-eating grin on Dave's face. _"You left your phone at my place."_ After signing this, he produces said phone from his pocket.

Kankri immediately pounces. He slams the door shut and snatches the phone away from Dave, who now looks more bewildered than a deer in the headlights of fifteen trucks. "See," your brother thunders, "He stole your phone!?"

"No," you shoot back, forcing your voice to remain as calm as possible. You grab the phone from Kankri, then retreat back to the furthest corner of the room. "I left it at his apartment."

Kankri doesn't push the topic, but you can see the skepticism in his eyes.

Dave laughs nervously. He stares at you. _"What the hell is going on?"_ He doesn't sign it, and he certainly doesn't _say_ it, but you know that's what he's thinking. Somehow, in your gut, you know that that's exactly what he's thinking.

Cronus removes the cigarette from his mouth, extinguishes it between his fingers, and takes a massive gulp from the bottle of beer near his armchair. "Is this the fucker who's been screwing with your bro, Kannie?" He stands and moves towards Dave.

Between Kankri and Cronus, the poor bastard's cornered. Sure, _you_ know that a slight wind can bowl over Kankri, but he's a pretty formidable-looking guy. He's the near-opposite of you. Tall, broad shoulders, and a lean, muscular build. And there are few people you know who could best Cronus, a hulking pseudo-greaser with a knack for dirty fighting.

From what you know about Dave, you expect for him to fight back. You wait for him to retaliate, though you know it won't end well if he does.

That pushback never comes. Instead, he freezes. Even as Cronus pulls off the external speech processor and microphone, he remains as still as the most terrified statue you've ever had the misfortune of seeing.

"Didn't Kurloz say these things go for thousands?" Cronus mutters, spinning the heavier portion around by the cord like a yo-yo. "Whatever. Makes a cool toy."

"Don't do that," Kankri chides, snatching away the external components. For a second, you hope that he's going to be a decent person. Instead, he disconnects the two portions. After discarding the over-the-ear microphone, crushing it beneath his foot, he begins tossing the speech processor from one hand to another. "No self-respecting individual would dare use it again after _this_ bastard did."

Cronus nods slowly, acting as if this information is being expelled straight from the heavens, parting clouds with its sheer wisdom. Then, he turns to Dave. He grabs him by his chin, yanks his face so that Dave's wide, yet incomprehensible red gaze meets standard yellow troll eyes. In the case of Cronus, you're 100% positive that the look in his eyes is nothing less than the most disgusting, unfiltered vitriolic malice. "It's almost a shame, Kankri," he hums, sounding as if he's saying nothing more than a childish joke.

"What?" Kankri asks. By now, he's starting to lose interest in Dave. He's picking at the sound processor, and it seems that he's successfully peeled off the battery covers. At least, that's what you assume the small silver button-like objects at his feet are.

"If he was a troll, he'd actually be kinda pretty," Cronus grunts. He releases his hold on Dave, then knees him in the gut.

Not surprisingly, Dave drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. Still, he says nothing. He doesn't react.

Whereas Kankri's zeal for this is fading fast, Cronus is in full swing. He snatches the shades off of Dave's head, studies them, and laughs. "Damn. These things are the fucking ugliest pieces of shit I've ever had to look at," he scoffs, tosses them onto the ground, and crushes them beneath the heel of his boot. As Dave leans over to observe this, the foot moves upwards, its steel toe hitting Dave's chest.

The resultant thud of Dave hitting the wall is what convinces you to speak up. Still, you don't use your most potent insults. As much as you'd like to call him out as the douchebag he is, you still want to have a roof over your head at night. "You've picked on him enough, don't you think?"

"HEY!" Cronus thunders, spinning around to face you. "Who the hell do you think you are, Kar? You ain't bit shit around here, kid."

Kankri, drawn back into the fray by Cronus' exclamation, adds in his own shitty opinion. "Why do you care, anyhow? He's just a human."

"What? You don't have anything better to do than play with yourself and beat up people you know you'll win against, Cronus?" The words fly from your mouth seemingly of their own accord. You know they were a mistake, and you know this outburst is going to be lauded over you as a receipt of your own so-called "softness" for humans.

And, already, Cronus bears down on you. He jaw is set, his fests clenched. "What the fuck did you just say to me!?"

"Karkat!" Kankri reprimands you.

Cronus steps forward.

And, before his foot hits the floor, Dave grabs him by the back of his jacket. With more force than you could ever imagine being within Dave's capabilities, he slams your soon-to-be brother-in-law face-first into the wall. He digs his elbow into Cronus' lower back. Yet, as he does this, he remains as calm as he'd be on a short walk. But, after this, he freezes.

It's only a matter of seconds before Cronus realizes that any fight that Dave would have put up is gone. He lurches backwards, slamming his weight into Dave.

Predictably, the blond falls. He allows himself to be roughly grabbed by the shoulders and hauled onto his feet, then thrown, like a garbage bag, over Cronus' shoulder.

"I'll deal with this piece of shit," announces Cronus, a certain sort of twisted glee underscoring his voice, "You can slap some shit into your stupid brother."

"And I will," Kankri huffs.

He steps forward, towering above you.

Experience has taught you how to censor him. Yet, just before Kankri begins to speak, your eyes meet Dave's. Your stomach contorts itself into a tight, guilty knot. You bring your right hand, which forms a fist, to your chest. With the palm facing you, you move the hand in a few small clockwise motions. _"Sorry."_

Dave doesn't respond, though you expected as much. Still, it only adds another nail to your coffin of wallowing guilt.


	12. To Ursula's Cabin

After you failed to return within Kankri's given curfew, you raised a red flag of suspicion. Your brother has now gone into all-out fuckup mode, and he's imposed a stricter set of rules. You must return home from work immediately, and all additional leisure activities must be approved by him before you can go through with them.

You might be an eighteen-year-old, but you're still under his roof. As much as you hate it, you're still under his tyrannical rule.

But, he's yet to suspect that you remembered Dave's phone number. He deleted it from your phone after Dave dropped it off, but you've since put it back into your contacts.

You know this won't last, though.

Eventually, Kankri will find out. When he does, that means of communication will be gone.

Until then, you're going to abuse the fuck out of that lifeline to the only person who seems to sympathize with you. (Sure, John cares. But he doesn't know half of what goes down in your home life. You're fairly certain he assumes you go home to a normal apartment, where you're cared for by your normal brother and his normal boyfriend.)

 **DAVE: I am consistently amazed with the insults that people come up with they are amazing.  
DAVE: And by that I mean that someone called me a glitter-shitting faggot today.  
DAVE: I'm not sure how they knew I was gay as fuck but it flatters me. I must exude some sort of lovely glowing aura of homosexuality.**

 **YOU: A.) THAT INSULT IS FUCKING AWFUL, WHY WOULD YOU TAKE IT AS A COMPLIMENT!? AND, B.) IF YOU'RE SHITTING GLITTER, I'D GO TO A DOCTOR.**

Though you don't comment on what you believe might be the first time he's mentioned his sexuality to you, you file the information away in your mind. Surely, that will be useful later. And, if the odd, fluttering feeling you get when you're around him is something to go by, it might just be beneficial to you, personally, in the future.

 **DAVE: If I actually gave a fuck about what people said to me, much less what people say about me behind my back, my life would be a massive fucking dumpster fire. And when I say "massive" I mean big enough to rival when London burned down.**

 **YOU: DAVE, THAT HAPPENED MULTIPLE TIMES. AND WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?**

 **DAVE: Then just pick one of the times it burnt down and go with that one. And it means I'd be a rollicking good time at the AA meetings I'm not gonna lie. Runs in the family.**

 **YOU: WHAT AN AMAZING, UPLIFTING FACT.**

Again, you file the information away in the back of your mind. You also wonder, privately, of course, if this is why you've never seen Dave drink before. In fact, now that you're thinking about it, John's mentioned before that Dave _doesn't_ drink.

 **DAVE: Anyhow that's enough for happy story time today. Tune in next week for another episode of Dave Strider's Sorrowful Life hosted by Dave Strider and cohosted by his middle fingers Fuck and You. PBS would like to thank its sponsors and the generous contributions from presumptuous asshole viewers like you. Thank you! Have a fucking nice day!**

 **YOU: I'M AMAZED AT YOUR BRAND OF... CAN I CALL THIS COMEDY?**

 **DAVE: I think it's funny.**

 **YOU: I'M NOT SURE YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR IS STANDARD-ISSUE, DAVE. ACTUALLY, I'M ALMOST FUCKING POSITIVE IT'S NOT. IF IT IS, THEN I HOPE REALITY BREAKS INTO MY FUCKING HOUSE AND GORES ME THROUGH THE FUCKING HEAD, KILLING ME INSTANTLY.**

 **DAVE: Damn that's harsh reality's a real bitch.**

 **YOU: HAVE YOU *MET* MY BROTHER AND BROTHER-IN-LAW?**

 **DAVE: I think I did. Or maybe I just decided to throw away the thing that lets me hear noises because I didn't like that I had to drop a few grand on it.**

 **YOU: DID I *ASK* FOR SMARTASS COMMENTARY?**

 **DAVE: No, but you subconsciously asked for a hot ass and that would be me.**

Though you never would have pictured yourself doing so a month ago, you snicker at his commentary. Admittedly, he has a nice sense of humor. He takes things with a grain of salt, and that's something you wish you could do. When things go wrong, he seems to roll with the punches; you, on the other hand, flip the fuck out. For that, you admire him. You also envy him for this, though the admiration is more prevalent than the envy.

 **YOU: HAS ANYONE EVER TOLD YOU THAT BEING A PETTY BUTT-SNIFFER SUITS YOU BETTER THAN BEING STUCK-UP TOOL? I'M SURPRISED NO ONE HAS.**

 **DAVE: Actually many people have told me this and I have in turn told them to shove it up their ass and call me when they're done so I can laugh at them.**

 **YOU: THAT SOUNDS LIKE A DISGUSTING KINK.**

From behind the closed door to your bedroom, and down the hall, you can hear the most disgusting noises you've ever had to be continually subjected to. You've always known what they were, and you've always despised them. When you pointed them out, you were scolded for being too sensitive.

 **YOU: SPEAKING OF DISGUSTING, MY BROTHER IS LOUDLY FUCKING HIS SHITTY BOYFRIEND AGAIN. I THINK THEY'RE ACTUALLY FIANCÉS NOW, BUT I DON'T GIVE ENOUGH OF A SHIT TO BOTHER GETTING THEIR RELATIONSHIP TITLE RIGHT. IF WE WERE GOING FOR ACCURACY, THEY'RE A PAIR OF ABSOLUTE SHIT-FACED BASTARDS.**

 **DAVE: Ew. Sorry man. That sucks.**

 **YOU: TELL ME ABOUT IT.**

 **DAVE: Why do that when I can sweep you off your maidenly feet with beguiling tales of my life?**

 **YOU: I DOUBT THOSE ACTUALLY EXIST.**

While you don't notice it, Dave's suggestion is working. Your mind disconnects from your brother's disgusting sexual exploits, and focuses on your conversation with Dave. If you close your eyes, you can almost picture him in front of you. You can see his hair and, in the back of your mind, you wonder if it's as soft and fluffy as it looks. Perhaps it's more along the lines of thick and sleek, with layers your fingers simply glide through?

 **DAVE: I dated John.**

 **YOU: THAT'S A LIE. JOHN IS THE STRAIGHTEST STRAIGHT MAN I'VE EVER MET IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. HE'S AS STRAIGHT AS I'M ACE.**

 **DAVE: Nice to know and nice rhyme there bud. But it ain't a lie I actually dated John Egbert for a whole week before he dumped me and started dating the daughter of the cactus man.**

 **YOU: HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET THE NICKNAME "CACTUS MAN" IN HIGH SCHOOL?**

 **DAVE: Easy. You own a house with cacti everywhere.**

 **YOU: THAT SOUNDS LIKE A SUREFIRE WAY TO FUCK YOURSELF RIGHT THE FUCK UP IF YOU TRIP.**

 **DAVE: There were a lot of drunk incidents where people got really confused about it. So you're totally right about that.**

You find yourself smiling at the ridiculous exchange between yourself and the blond douchebag-looking guy you once swore you'd never speak to.

And, you continue smiling as the conversation draws onwards, late into the night. Long after the disturbances have died down from your brother's room, you continue texting Dave.

Eventually, you fall asleep, with your phone under your pillow.


	13. Father (Okuribito)

It's not as if you actually give a damn about Kankri's ridiculous rules. In fact, you've been constantly disobeying them. You've gone out to lunch with John a few times, and you've been trying to get some time with Dave.

Unfortunately for you, his new job isn't as flexible as his old one. He works through lunch. In fact, he works all day. No breaks.

According to John, that's just how he is. If he needs the money badly enough, he'll toil like a loyal golden-egg-shitting chicken to get it. Then again, that's bad news for you. Unlike Dave, you _do_ have a break and, with these new rules, that's the only time you'll have to see him. At least, it will be for quite a while. You don't have any plans of moving in your foreseeable future, though this contradicts what John claims to have seen in one of the crystal balls he was cleaning.

Thus, some time passes before you get to see Dave again. (You're still in touch with him, though, and both of you prefer using Skype.)

This time, the gap is shorter. A mere nine days, though it feels like longer. Amazingly, it feels like much longer.

Somehow, a day without Dave seems like two or three. Sometimes, if work is boring enough, it seems like four. As much as you'd hate to have to admit it to his face, you miss having him barge in. You miss John inviting him over, and watching as the two of them acted like a pair of prank-loving wizarding brothers. And, now, you miss _him_.

John knows this.

He's been bugging you nonstop about it, but you're not going admit something to him before you admit it to yourself. And, right now, that's not a priority. Before anything happens between you and Dave, you have to know more about him. Above all, you need to know who he is. Which is the _real_ Dave—the shades-touting douchecanoe, or the genuinely caring (and, sometimes, even sweet) dog-loving dork? You're leaning towards the latter, but you can't be sure.

Now, though, you don't have time for these theoretical mental discussions.

You only have two hours with Dave, and you're determined to spend it right.

From what you see when he walks in, he is, too. He's done his best to dress up his work uniform. Instead of his usual red hoodie (which features a red gear on the back), which you've often seen him wearing in the winter, his white, collared shirt is beneath a rather spiffy red blazer. Black elbow patches complete the look, whilst also simultaneously making him look like an even bigger nerd than usual. Again, he wears his stupid, outlandish oblong glasses. Now that you think about it, though, they suit him. They don't obstruct his facial features, which makes them perfect for signing. Aside from that, and as much as you'd never admit it to him, you like being able to look at his entire face.

Both of you have agreed to keep it lowkey, though. You'll remain in the shop. That way, if anyone who knows Kankri comes in (and there are many, many people who know Kankri), you can simply fake that he's a customer. A perfectly reasonably way to be able to hang out with someone you're not supposed to be around without it turning into a massive shitshow. (Even if someone doesn't know Kankri, it'll get into the news. That's how Kankri found out about John.)

Now, if you're going to be perfectly honest, you're leaning towards wanting to date Dave. Maybe it's the rebelliousness of the act that makes it so suddenly appealing. Then again, he's always been nice to look at. And, reevaluating your interactions with him, it seems that he has some feelings towards you. At the very least, that explains why he looks so damned pitiful whenever you turn him down.

Beyond that, he's covering the ruse even more by bringing a friend. No. Scratch that. He's brought a few. To be exact, he's brought along two of his friends from what he likes to call the "Not-So-Secret Cult of Deaf and Hard of Hearing Friendship." (You're not sure why he chose such a long name, but it certainly makes the Skype calls you've had with him about his friends more interesting.)

The first person steps forward to greet you. He's a bit shorter than Dave, though still taller than you. He resembles John in several ways, though his hair is neater and his skin a deep, flawless brown, bordering on a bronze-ish color. Unlike John, he can also grow facial hair, though it's little more than unkempt chin stubble.

He introduces himself in the customary way. _"My name is J-A-K-E E-N-G-L-I-S-H,"_ he first spells out his name. Then, he presents his name sign. Around the same time, you realize why you've been feeling like there's something off about his face. And, as it turns out, it's not actually his face. It's his left ear, the top of which has (through some odd means) been lopped off. It's not enough to be immediately noticeable, and the only reason you finally noticed it was because you kept searching for it. (You'd be annoyed as hell if you didn't figure this out.)

Honestly, you can't help but think of Van Gogh. Hell, you might even suggest changing his name sign to mimic Van Gogh's if that wasn't a super rude thing for you to do. (You have no real say in anything involving name signs. While you'd sure as hell like for yours to be changed, you're a hearing individual. You got your sign from Dave, and it's an expression of nothing less than complete trust and a confidence in your ability to handle yourself around the Deaf community.)

That aside, you refocus your attentions on Jake, nodding as he continues. _"I went to Lakeside Academy for the Deaf, and graduated from Gallaudet."_ He offers you a wide smile. From what you learned in your ASL courses, you'd expect him to hug you at this point. But, like Dave, he's more reserved. He simply offers you a quick pat on the back. Unlike Dave's precise signing, his is looser. He doesn't focus as much on handshapes, opting to keep his motions as the focus.

Then, a woman steps forward. Like Jake, she has flawless brown skin, though hers is much darker. Her thick, curly hair is roughly shoulder length. You're genuinely surprised that Dave even knows her. She skips the introduction and pulls you into a hug that you're vaguely concerned you'll never get out of alive. Then, when she finally releases, she offers you a bright grin. Also, unlike Dave _and_ Jake, she begins by speaking. (You can only assume Dave told them about you before bringing them over.) "Name's Roxy," she says, her five-volume-levels-too-high-voice dripping in sociable cheer. "I can speak and do ASL, so I'm pretty cool doing both. Last name's Lalonde, but I'm not actually related to Dave's cousin, Rose. We've just got the same last name. Like how Will Smith and Matt Smith aren't related."

You nod slowly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Dave smirking. He knew what he was doing when he brought Roxy. _"She's a handful,"_ he surreptitiously signs.

When she gets no response from you, she continues. "I guess I'll keep talking. So, you're Karkat?"

After a few tries, you manage to get your point across through sign. _"Yeah. I guess he told you about me."_ You can't come back with some snappy retort, though. Sarcasm, at least in your experience, doesn't work well in sign language. The only person you've seen using it is Dave, and it always takes a few seconds before you'll register the sarcasm. Though, if he's just texting you, it comes through perfectly.

"Hell yeah! He told us all about you." Roxy grins, and the expression seems to light up her entire face. She leans in, jabs you in the side with her elbow, and shoots you a pair of finger pistols. "He thinks you're real cute, by the way. And, hey, quick tip: you want a conversation starter? Dave's head-over-heels for music." she mutters. She doesn't sign this statement. In fact, she makes sure to turn her back to both Dave and Jake when she says it. Then, as if nothing had been said at all, she turns around. _"Jake, we should go act like we care about this weird store."_

Jake nods knowingly, then follows Roxy. The pair begin to feign interest in the products on the shelves.

Once they're distracted, you turn to Dave. He still hasn't gotten a new processor, and you're still not confident enough in your signing to actively engage him in purely signed conversation. So, you pull out your phone and offer an apologetic frown.

He doesn't seem to mind.

To avoid Kankri tracking your records, you use Pesterchum.

 **\- carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **began pestering turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **-**

 **CG: SO, WHAT? YOU HAVE ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR YOU WANT TO DO? I DON'T REALLY HAVE ANY PLANS, BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING MESS OF DISORGANIZED BULLSHIT.**

You assume it's out of convenience that Dave types his message. After all, the phone is already in his hand.

 **TG: We could start by sitting that's always a good way to not feel awkward as hell**

 **CG: GOOD PLAN.**

You nod, take a seat beside Dave on the sofa in front of the sword display, and continue the conversation. When you think about it, you wonder whether or not it's time that has taught him the patience with which he waits for your message. Though his spins the rotating midsection of a ring on his left middle finger, he remains (otherwise) completely motionless.

 **CG: ANY REASON FOR THE FACT THAT JAKE IS MISSING A CENTIMETER OFF OF HIS LEFT EAR?**

Dave, having read this, laughs. He rolls his eyes and adjusts his glasses before responding. This time, he sets the phone aside and signs. _"It's a funny story. My cousin, Dirk, is Jake's boyfriend. They're really big into LARPing, and both of them are fencers. To sum it up, Dirk accidentally picked up an actual sword during an event. It was a mistake, and it's weird, but both of them think it's a hilarious story to tell."_

You nod. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you recall Dave telling you about Dirk.

 **CG: YOUR FRIENDS MAKE ABOUT AS MUCH SENSE AS YOU DO.**

Dave shrugs. _"Why would I be friends with normal people? It's boring."_

 **CG: I'D SAY THAT JOHN IS PRETTY NORMAL. HE'S YOUR STEREOTYPICAL STRAIGHT MAN, PUN FUCKING INTENDED.**

 _"There are exceptions to every rule."_ Again, Dave shrugs. He eyes you over, then offers you a small smirk as he continues, _"Are you planning on just pestering me with questions?"_

You respond with a disgruntled huff. You run your fingers through your hair before signing your response. It's simple enough. Hand at shoulder height, palm out. The fingertips of your forefinger and middle finger touch on your thumb. _"No."_

 _"I get to ask you some questions, then,"_ Dave, too, huffs. Like a startled bird, he puffs out his chest. _"How do you know sign language?"_

 **CG: I TOOK IT AS MY LANGUAGE FOR HIGH SCHOOL? I'M NOT AN EXPERT, I'LL FUCKING ADMIT THAT.**

Dave nods, indicating that he's read your response. _"It's a beautiful language."_

 **CG: YEAH. I FUCKING KNOW THAT, YOU DICKWEED. IS THERE A POINT TO THIS?**

Again, a shrug. _"I'm just saying."_ He hums a single, monotone note before finally coming up with a question. _"What's your favorite sound?"_

 **CG: THAT'S A WEIRD-ASS QUESTION. BUT I GUESS THE BIRDS SCREECHING IN THE MORNINGS ARE PRETTY NICE.**

 _"I don't pay that much attention to them. That sort of stuff doesn't pick up well with the microphone."_ Unbothered by the fact that he's never been rudely woken by a screeching bird early in the morning, he continues with his questioning. _"Okay. I guess I've used up my turns. Your round. Fire."_ As if it will somehow help you understand a message you already understand, he mimes the act of firing a pistol. Then, as more of an afterthought, he decides to tack on a final bit. _"Nothing's off-limits."_

 **CG: FINE. THEN LET'S HIT THE FUCKING NAIL ON THE FUCKING HEAD. HOW RUDE CAN THIS NEXT QUESTION BE? ON A SCALE OF ONE TO SHOWING UP AT A FUNERAL DRUNK, IN SHIT-STREAKED UNDERWEAR AND CLOWN MAKEUP CAN THIS BE?**

Dave pauses. He blinks a few times, presumably confused by your commentary, before answering. _"That's oddly specific. We'll go for the guy who's bad at wiping his own ass, though. Seriously. If this whole act of rebellious friendship is going to work out, we've got to get to know each other."_

 **CG: FINE. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO ASK, THEN. I KNOW YOU DO, BECAUSE I'M SURE EVERYONE AND THEIR GODDAMNED DOG ASKS YOU WITHOUT KNOWING YOU FOR FIVE SECONDS.**

"Ah." Dave says this aloud, nodding sagely. If you put a fancy-looking bottle in his hand, he'd make the perfect spokesperson for a fragrance aimed at smug philosophers. _"You want to know 'how deaf' I am."_ Even though he said you could be as rude as you wanted to be, he still looks vaguely offended. You aren't surprised by this; when you asked the question, you knew you were taking a risk. But, you needed to know. Your socially inappropriate curiosity had been burning a hole in your composure for a while, and you finally had a chance to sate it. Despite this, Dave still responds in a characteristically calm manner. _"Completely. I hear nothing right now. I know you're going to ask more and, even if you don't, let me be perfectly clear: I wouldn't hear if a nuclear bomb exploded right outside that door."_ Then, he shrugs.

A tiny "oh" sound escapes you.

 **CG: SORRY.**

He scowls. "Ugh," he groans, rolling his eyes as he signs, _"For what? It's not bad or awful. I'm not missing out on things. Don't pull a fast one on me and end up being some sort of audist douchebag. I swear to God, I'll deck you in the fucking face if you do that."_

You, realizing what you've done, quickly backtrack. You know it seems as if you're only saying this to cover your own ass, but everything you say is true.

 **CG: I MEANT FOR MAKING YOU ANSWER THE QUESTION. I'VE JUST WANTED TO KNOW FOR A WHILE.**

He, naturally, responds with a wary glare. Nonetheless, he nods. He even grants you another shot at a question. _"You get one more, then it's my turn again."_

 **CG: DO YOU ACTUALLY NEED THE GLASSES, OR ARE THEY FOR THE "AESTHETIC"?**

Dave, seemingly forgetting about what happened just moments ago, laughs. He gently shoves you by the shoulder—enough to be felt, but not enough to throw you off balance. _"I actually need them. Are you usually this rude?"_

 **CG: NO, BUT YOU GAVE ME PERMISSION TO BE. I'LL SAVE YOU THE TROUBLE AND SAY "TOUCHÉ" MYSELF. YOUR TURN.**

 _"If there were two guys on the moon, and one of them killed the other with a rock, would that be fucked up or what?"_ Dave knows exactly what he's doing, because the shittiest (yet, somehow, lovely) smirk is spread across his face like butter on bread. As soon as he's finished translating an internet meme into American Sign Language, he snickers. _"I'm kidding. My actual question is if it's okay for me to feel your hair?"_

You frown, though it's more out of shock than anything.

 **CG: THAT'S A ONE FUCKING STRANGE QUESTION, BUT I GUESS YOU CAN.**

Dave nods. _"I've just always wondered what troll hair feels like."_ He reaches out and runs his fingers through your hair. And, to your surprise, it's a gentle action. He doesn't tug or pull, and it's more of a quick, delicate stroke. Then, he withdraws. _"It's as coarse as it looks."_

 **CG: DUH?**

A snort of laughter—a sound reminiscent of something Egbert would make—escapes him. He pats you on the back. _"You're funny."_

 **CG: YOU'RE WEIRD.**

 _"I know."_ Dave accompanies this with the disturbing action of waggling his eyebrows. Then, he checks his watch.

You do, too, though you only have to look at your phone's clock.

The two of you still have quite some time. You refuse to squander it. You continue conversing in this manner, exchanging mostly banal questions, until he finally has to leave. And, when he does, you're surprised that you feel...

You're not sure what the word is.

Empty?

Alone?

You feel something, and that something isn't exactly good. It's not positive. It sure as hell isn't a good feeling, but you can't name it. And that only exacerbates the problem.


	14. Wave Cruising

Kanaya Maryam is quite possibly the most goddamned gorgeous troll you've ever seen in your life. Her features are in perfect proportion, her hair immaculately styled, and her eyes a vivid, perfect shade of jade. Add to that her jade lipstick, and you have a fashion-forward troll, too. She's taken, though, as you'd expect. What you wouldn't expect is that she's dating _Rose goddamned Lalonde_ , who, you later found out, you were talking to in the chat.

Since that chat, Dave has managed to concoct a plan for you to hang out with his group of friends. Knowing fully and—as he admitted in a chat—being in full agreement with you that Kanaya is the most aesthetically pleasing troll to exist, he's sent her as your "friend" to meet with.

Kankri and Cronus allowed you to leave with her.

In the car, she handed over a signed copy of the currently unpublished _Wizards in Heat III: The Hardest Wand is in Your Pocket_ , complete with the page stating that it's a draft publication given you by the author. After nearly dying of a heart attack, you stashed your treasure away in your bookbag. Then, you engaged Kanaya in some casual chitchat.

She dropped you off at the mall, where you're to meet Dave, before departing to go on a date with Rose.

* * *

The arcade is located in the center of a bustling mall, spans two levels, and is filled to the brim games you didn't even know existed. An entire section is dedicated to Japanese games, and most of them are (predictably) in Japanese. There are also vintage video game machines and a few display-only antique setups. One such rig seems to be a punching game, wherein a light-based scale would move higher the harder you punched a whoopee cushion-shaped bag in its stupid, smiling face.

Along the back walls of both floors, which you've been forced to explore to try and _find_ Dave, are massive prize booths. The rewards range from the run-of-the-mill shit—stuffed toys, erasers, consumable goods, and even some troll candies ( _Gummy Grubs_ , _Somefin Sweets_ , and _Candied Skuttlebeasts_ )—occupy one half. Then, on the other half, there are prizes that are absolutely outrageous. For an absolutely absurd amount of tickets, you could legitimately win an iPhone, iPad, or even a voucher for the installation of a pool in your backyard. Considering the price for the last one, though, you think it's a joke. (No one could ever feasibly get ten trillion tickets, could they?)

Almost half of the second floor is straight pinball machines. There are more than you ever imagined there could be in the whole world, and each is different. Some of them are even locked in display settings, and the glass features plaques for each. One such machine is a Mario-themed game, which is noted to be amongst some of the rarest.

The place is absolutely packed, and it makes you realize just how big Newhaven is. You didn't even know this many people lived in the city. Then again, you live and work in the less hectic historical district.

Aside from the crowd, it's also loud. You can't even hear yourself think, much less work up enough focus to find Dave.

Perhaps the fact that he lacks that distraction is why he's able to find you long before you can even put together a plan to find him. Having learned his lesson at the _other_ mall (across town, in the shopping-focused part of the city), he approaches you from the front. A massive, admittedly cute smile is spread across his face.

 _"I tried staying in one place and waiting, but you never showed. I figured I might as well walk around and try to find you."_ Having said this, he offers you an apologetic smile. At the end, he adds a sign that's becoming increasingly familiar, a code word of sorts, between the two of you. _"Sorry."_

You, having spent the past few days brushing up on your sign language (literally, too, since you had to dust off your old notes), respond the same way. _"Is it always this busy?"_

 _"Yeah. I thought it would be easier to hide us being together if there's a massive crowd."_ He shrugs. _"John's here, too. He's not too big on arcades, but he's agreed to hold my favorite machine for us."_

In the back of your mind, you wonder what it would be like to know that the "us" in his statement was a romantic sort of phrasing. This thought prompts a warm, fuzzy feeling. Clearly, you would like it, even if you wouldn't admit it to Dave's face.

Out of a mixture that's one half wanting to have a chance to take a jab at Dave, and the other half being a genuine interest, your next statement is signed with furrowed brows and slightly parted lips. Alongside other nonmanual markers, this indicates a question rather than a statement. _"What game is it that manages to make Dave Strider's esteemed list?"_

Dave responds with a few swift motions, and you're guessing that it's a sort of shorthand that he uses with his friends. You, however, don't understand it; he notices quickly. He amends his response, offering an exact signed English translation of the title. _"House of the Dead 4."_

 _"I should have figured,"_ you roll your eyes, _"It's an F-P-S."_ For the sake of speed, you abbreviate, spelling out the final word in your statement. You're unsure of whether this is correct.

Dave understands, though, so you let the issue go. He nods, the pulls a sealed bag of earplugs from his pocket. _"You might want these."_

Having put up with the cacophony of the inside of this increasingly sweat-scented arcade, you eagerly snatch the earbuds away from Dave. With the politeness of Oliver Twist eating a bowl of porridge, you rip the packet open and put both in. It doesn't completely block the noise, but it lessens it to the point that you can finally think clearly.

And, with this newfound lucidity, you wonder how much of your previous signing was grammatically correct. Then again, upon further thought, you realize that you don't really care. You're just happy to have some time with Dave. Aside from that, he understood what you meant.

The two of you elbow your way through the fray, eventually ending up in front of the game. It's huge, features a singular widescreen television, and a mount featuring two Uzi-shaped controllers. Next to this is a much larger version with an actual cockpit-like setup. It's roped off, though, and a sign mounted on either side notes that this is the special edition, and that it is currently being repaired.

 _"What's so special about the special edition?"_ You ask.

Dave begins to answer, only to get distracted with the task of trying to find some spare change.

John takes over. Though he's wearing earplugs, he still speaks. His voice is powerful enough to carry itself through the crowd and to you. "It's like a giant rumble controller. It shoots air and vibrates and has multiple screens." At this point, his face contorts into an expression of horror, as if he's reliving some awful memory. "Dave made me play with him once. It was terrifying, and I hated it."

At this, as if he knew this was coming, Dave sets aside his wallet. While one-handed signing is possible, it seems as if he wants to use both hands to make a point. _"It wasn't that bad!"_ He laughs, this time using that loud, hearty sort that's starting to shift from being an annoyance to an endearing trait. He knows how loud he's being—that much you've figured out—he just doesn't care. _"It doesn't matter. I've got change."_

Without waiting for your input, Dave jams the coins into the slot with one hand, and presses start with the other. He pulls the Uzi on his side from its holster, then stares at you. "What're you waiting for? Pick up the goddamned plastic Uzi," he seems to say, without saying it.

You do. It's vaguely sticky. This disturbs you deeply. Nonetheless, you continue. At the very least, it will appease Dave. Still...

"Any reason _why_ I'm doing this?" you ask, looking to John.

He responds with a shrug and a cocky grin. "He likes beating people. The only person he hasn't beaten in this is me."

"Like you could play this to save your dorky ass," you scoff, trying (and failing) to shoot the zombie-corpse hybrid on your screen.

Around the same time that Dave decides you're taking too long, and shoots the monster for you, John rebuffs. "I'm actually amazing at this game, thank you very much."

You, deciding to focus on at least trying to beat Dave, ignore this. You invest all of your energy into shooting the strange, distorted humanoids (and, sometimes, non-humanoids) on your side of the screen. Unfortunately for you, these efforts fail miserably.

At the end of each round, which you're certain you only complete due to Dave's help, the scores are always the same. You're somewhere in what you're guessing would be considered unborn-child-tier. (You're actually confident that an unfertilized human egg—just the egg—could score higher than you.) In fact, as you reach the thirty-minute mark, you haven't managed to kill a single thing by yourself.

You also notice that John has been scrutinizing your playing abilities the entire time. In fact, he's been whispering tips in your ear. "Point the gun off-screen to reload," was the most popular suggestion. Yet, even when you did this, you failed to be able to consistently aim at any worthwhile part of the zombie. Not that it matters. You think a single clip of bullets to the chest would be enough to kill something, and you can _at least_ manage that.

Nonetheless, after another half hour of this—as the credits roll, and Dave sets down his fake plastic Uzi—you feel compelled to ask. _"Did you play this just so you could kick my ass?"_ You huff, sticking your bottom lip out, into a pronounced pout. _"I am genuinely hurt."_

Dave responds with another of his hearty laughs. _"Damn! You suck!"_ He elbows you in the side. _"John! We found someone worse at this than Jane!"_ With this said, he pats you on the shoulder, then ruffles your hair. _"I know you're not upset. But, if you are, it's okay to cry."_

In response to this, John simply rolls his eyes.

You let forth an indignant grunt. _"I will have you know,"_ you sign, smirking slightly to show that you're not being serious, _"That I have only cried twice today after losing to the biggest tool on this planet."_

Dave, meanwhile, collects the absurd amount of tickets, which spew from the machine and onto the floor.

You're honestly not sure how many there are. One hundred has long since passed.

Two hundred is gone.

After a solid minute of semi-rigid paper spewing, you're forced to give up. You estimate that there's a good two-hundred tickets. This surprises you, as you never knew that _House of the Dead_ games even dispensed tickets. As it stands, you were just too bad to ever receive any. Not that you'll let that stop you.

He might be better at video games, but there's something you _know_ you can beat him at. You tap him on the shoulder, distracting him from what has turned to a fit of snorts and wheezes of amuse. (You act like you're hurt, but you're pretty damned bemused at how much you suck, too.) _"S-K-E-E ball?"_ When you sign this, you simply spell out the first half. You're certain there's a real sign for it, but you don't know what it is.

Dave, as usual, doesn't mind. (You get the feeling that he's content with just having someone meeting him halfway when it comes to communication.) _"Sure."_ He turns to John, adding, _"You're invited, too, doofus."_

Naturally, John follows. He jogs to catch up with Dave, who's already a good two yards ahead. As he reaches him, he begins to sign. You notice that, like you, he's not as expressive. Considering how he speaks, that seems odd. Then again, it's a different language. _"I'm going to kick your ass."_

Dave huffs. He rolls his eyes, punches John on the shoulder, and makes a loud, proud declaration of some sort. It's not a word, merely an expression of how confident the blond is that he'll beat his cocky, bespectacled friend.

You, right now, are content to watch. Clearly, the two are good friends.

At some point, you'd like to be as close to Dave as John is.

"Karkat!" The R's are still a bit off, but your name is clearly recognizable. Dave's voice, as usual, rises above the discord of the crowd. He's turned his back to the crowd and, to the credit of his and John's relationship, they've got some great teamwork. John's back is to Dave's, and he clears a path for them to walk through as Dave signs to you. _"You ready to get your ass kicked like Shinji Ikari?"_ He spells the name, then waggles his eyebrows.

Today, you have learned that your prospective future boyfriend is not only a dork, but a _massive_ dork. _"I'm sorry, I don't watch bullshit. What's a Shinji?"_

 _"I know you've seen it. John told me."_ Dave offers a confident grin at the end of his statement.

You shoot John a glare.

Aloud, possibly to avoid Dave knowing what's being said, John responds. Though he doesn't refute his claim, he says something that doesn't exactly surprise you. "I have $200 on you and Dave dating. I might as well give him advice."

"Fair enough," you, too, say this aloud.

While it's an incredibly rude thing to do, Dave hasn't noticed. He's turned back around, and he's walking at John's side.

And, a few seconds after this exchange ends, you reach your destination.

"Ah-ha!" Dave yells, grabbing the attention of his intended audience (and some unintended onlookers). Then, when both you and John are looking at him, he begins to sign. _"Rules!"_ He holds up four fingers, indicating that there will be four things on this list. He points to his index finger. _"First: We all start at the same time."_ He points to his middle finger, and shifts his shoulders slightly. _"Second: We all put in the same amount of credits."_ He points to his ring finger, once again shifting his shoulders. _"Third: When you're done, you're done. Don't put in any more credits."_ Finally, he points to his little finger. _"Fourth: Don't cry too much when I win. I didn't ask to be so amazing, I was just made that way."_

You can't help but laugh at this final rule, and John joins in.

The laughter dies down, however, as you all put in enough money for sixteen shots. When Dave kicks his machine, you all begin. You, admittedly, only start because his action startled you into pressing the button.

John is absolutely awful at this.

Dave does okay.

You, as you predicted, excel. By the end of _this_ game, it's you who's laughing. _"Suck on that, Dave goddamned Strider!"_ you proclaim, posing like some sort of overly dramatic cartoon villain. _"I kicked_ your _ass!"_

With a small smile, Dave simply shrugs. _"We all make mistakes. And I'm still better at the best game here."_

 _"Dance Dance Revolution is the best game here,"_ John interjects.

Dave responds with an indignant huff. _"Yeah, but it's a little harder to play when you can't hear the music."_

 _"You can see the arrows,"_ retorts John.

 _"The arrows can't handle my sick moves,"_ shoots back Dave.

You, in total awe of this situation, simply laugh. Before you forget, you collect your tickets. The stack is close in size to Dave's, but you know he still has more.

As this happens, you realize something.

You haven't been this happy since you moved here. For two years, you've been doing little more than trudging through every day, then finding comfort in sleep. Now, you find yourself dreading when you go to bed. After all, you could miss something.

A whistle brings you out of this introspection. You look up, towards Dave. _"Take out the earplugs and jump in the car, loser. We're getting some pizza."_

You, doing as told, remove your earplugs as follow both Dave and John out of the arcade and into the cafeteria.

 _"There's a Pizza Hut kiosk. We'll get something there, eat, then get more tickets. I'm buying out this whole establishment,"_ Dave grins as he signs this.

And, honestly, you can't help but smile back.

* * *

At the end of the day, all three of you end up with enough combined tickets to buy the amazing prize of a voucher to get five large pizzas from _Pizzapalooza_. Instead, each of you takes their own share and invests it in something else.

John buys fifteen whoopee cushions, once again proving that he's a child masquerading as an adult.

You buy a pair of ugly sunglasses. They look exactly like Dave's old ones, except they have white rims and black arms. You give these to him, and he thanks you by calling them a "hollow shell of his amazing old shades."

And, finally, he buys the ugliest plush crab you've ever seen. Its face is kind of cute, but the rest of it is lopsided and strange. Nonetheless, it's incredibly soft. It's also pretty big. He presents it to you, claiming that it reminds him of your "shitty-ass but kinda sweet personality."


	15. Day of the River

**\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **began pestering carcinoGeneticst** **[CG]** **-**

 **TG: so i have this weird question like super weird  
TG: like on a scale of one to the fact that we're tiny living things on a massive rock hurtling through space it's that last one**

 **CG: IS THERE ANY REASON YOU CONSTANTLY PESTER ME AT THE *WORST* TIMES POSSIBLE? IT'S LITERALLY 4:00 AM. DO YOU EVER FUCKING SLEEP?**

 **TG: ha that's a funny one kit-kat i never sleep who told you i slept at all  
TG: but no seriously i was wondering some shit  
TG: do you like living with kankri?**

 **CG: OH, YEAH! IT'S GREAT! I FUCKING LOVE WAKING UP AND SEEING THE DICTIONARY DEFINITION OF A DOUCHEBAG IN THE SAME BUILDING AS ME.  
CG: IN CASE YOU'RE TOO SLEEP-DEPRIVED TO FULLY DIGEST THIS INFORMATION, I'M BEING SARCASTIC.**

 **TG: thanks for the info i never would've guessed  
TG: but i've been looking around and rose told me they're opening this new place downtown  
TG: it's even closer to mage's emporium and it's not that far from bluebird grocers so i was wondering  
TG: wow this is super awkward is it super awkward in here or is it just me?**

 **CG: I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE FUCKING SAYING, SO I WOULDN'T KNOW! IS IT AWKWARD IN HERE?**

 **TG: you want to split the rent 50/50 and move in with me?  
TG: i swear i'm not a bad roommate  
TG: let's be real i've been *kinda* depressed the past few months so cleaning hasn't been a top priority  
TG: but i swear i'll keep at least the main area clean  
TG: it's got two bedrooms so we don't have to do anything funny like sleep together  
TG: unless you want to  
TG: fuck oh god did i say that**

 **CG: YOU'RE FLIPPING YOUR SHIT AGAIN, DAVE. TAKE A DEEP FUCKING BREATH.**

 **TG: this is just *super* awkward and unannounced and i'm real sorry  
TG: it seemed like such a good idea up until two seconds ago**

 **CG: IT'S A GREAT IDEA, DAVE. I LIKE IT. REALLY. IT'S THE MOST GALAXY-FUCKING, CREATION-OF-A-NEW-UNIVERSE LEVEL GREAT IDEA, AND I'M RIGHT THE FUCK ON BOARD, BUT YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN. SHUSH. DON'T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE AND PAP YOU.**

 **TG: ...  
TG: you do like the idea?  
TG: ...  
TG: okay that's better cool sorry i lost my shit for a minute  
TG: but i found it hiding under a dozen plush rumpuses of anxiety it's all cool now**

 **CG: I'M NOT SURE I BELIEVE THAT. I'M COMING OVER THERE.**

 **TG: oh fuck nah you don't have to do that please don't do that i'm not actually dressed for company right now**

 **\- carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **ceased pestering turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **-**

It's colder than what you'd imagine it would be if you tried to invade Russia in the winter, but with the caveat of only being able to wear a thong and nipple tassels. The wind stings your exposed skin, and you really wished you'd worn more than your long pajamas, a scarf, and a black pea coat. You find yourself constantly having to readjust your scarf so that it's over your mouth, as you fear your face will get frostbitten otherwise.

It feels like it takes forever for the signal to tell you it's safe to cross the road, and even longer for you to get to where you're going.

But, you need to know if this is real.

For all you know, Dave's peculiar sense of humor is at it again. This might be some sort of strange, misguided joke. Somewhere in your heart, though, you know this is wrong. You know, deep down, that Dave wouldn't pull something like this.

That doesn't change the fact that you _have_ to be sure.

It doesn't change the fact that you're risking your own safety, breaking out of your brother's apartment against his wishes, and marching up four flights of icy stairs. You finally make it to the door, which leads to Dave's hallway, only to find that it's locked. You assume this is for safety reasons, but knock nonetheless.

Your efforts are rewarded.

The door swings open, and you find yourself staring at a bewildered Dave Strider. He, too, wears long pajamas, though his are red. A pair of black, fuzzy slippers cover his feet. _"I didn't actually expect you to show up."_ You think this might be a lie, but you don't know. While you can easily tell when someone you know well lies to you, you've yet to find Dave's tell. Then again, the fact that he was waiting for you suggests that he's not being entirely honest.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think there might be a video game with a minigame, wherein a ahoge-having lawyer has to find people's tells. This is a strange thought, though, and you brush it off.

 _"This is one weird joke you're pulling, Dave Strider,"_ you offer your commentary as soon as your gazes meet. Your eyes narrow, your fingers twitch. _"You can't seriously be offering to split... To split..."_ You furrow your brows, then put the upper portions of the backs of your fingers together. Both hands form a very loose "C" shape, and, together, they arch, so that the palm goes from facing you to facing upwards. Then, with your index fingers pointed inwards and up, you move your hands as if pedaling a bicycle. Finally, you fingerspell. _"How do you sign R-E-N-T?"_

Dave, not to your surprise, smirks. _"The musical, or the payment?"_ Before you can answer, he grabs you by the wrist. After pulling you inside, he remarks further, saying, _"It's colder than inverse hell out there. You sign it like this."_ One index finger points up, and the palm faces to the side. The other, with the palm facing inwards, brushes against the side of the upward-pointing counterpart. He does this twice. _"Better?"_

 _"Better."_ You nod. (Technically, both of you signed "good," but, in your head, you translated it as "better." You're not exactly the most literal translator on the planet, hence why you never pursued what may have been a promising career as an interpreter.) You once again allow him to grab your wrist, —his hold gentle, and loose enough to easily break away if you wanted—and lead you back to his room.

After he closes the door, he responds. _"What the hell are you doing here!?"_ He adds meaning to his words with his stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders tensed, teeth clenched. The inner edges of his brows press together, forming a distinctive line of—something. Disdain? Disappointment? A few seconds pass before you realize it's anger. _"Go back to your apartment!"_

 _"You can't just drop a suggestion like the mind-shitting revelation you just sent me and not expect me to ask you about it!"_ You retort, unconsciously mimicking his stance. _"We've barely known each other for a month, and you're asking me to live with you!?"_

Here, Dave pauses. His shoulders sag, and his gaze drops lower, breaking away from yours. _"Do you...?"_ He falters. _"Do you not want to?"_

His reaction, like a punch in the gut, prompts a rapid rebuttal. _"No!"_ you snap, shaking your head to reinforce your message. _"No! I already said it's a great idea. I just need to know if you're being serious. I'd love to move in with you."_

As if this response hit some sort of sudden reverse switch, Dave shifts from pouting to gloating. His frown turns to a grin, and his downtrodden stance turns into a playful one. He nudges you in the side with his elbow, signing, _"Everyone wants to live with me. I'm just that amazing."_

You, after rolling your eyes, look around. The space has been somewhat tidied, though it's still a mess. Personally, you'd never be able to deal with all the clutter. If you're to move in with him, he's going to have to learn how to either clean up after himself or keep his personal cleaning disasters to his own room. If the two of you end up dating... Well, that's a different beast, altogether. _"How long will it take?"_ you eventually ask.

He shrugs. _"At least a week or two. I can start the application process now, but it'll be a while before we know if I've been approved. And I'm going to imagine your brother won't take it well."_

 _"My brother can shove it up his egotistical ass,"_ you huff.

Dave offers you a small smile, then shoves you in the direction of the door. _"Charming. Now, get out of here. I don't really want to get you in trouble."_

You pause.

Does he not want to get you in trouble, or does he want to keep himself out of harm's way? The logical conclusion is both, but there has to be one with a bit more priority than the other. And, you feel compelled to ask. _"You don't want to get me in trouble, or you don't want to piss off my brother?"_

 _"More the first one."_ Dave's smile falters. After a moment—little more than the time it takes to blink—it's returned, though it seems less sincere than before. _"I've had worse done to me on a pretty regular basis,"_ he drops this as if it's a common thing. As if it's little more than a fact, comparable to him telling you that he went to the grocery store today. It's disconcerting, but you're not going to push it. Not now, anyway.

Now, you simply nod. _"Okay. See you later."_

 _"Ditto."_ Dave nods, follows you to the door, and closes it as you leave.

Behind you, you hear more locks and latches being secured than you'd ever believe could fit on a door.

There's more to Dave Strider than meets the eye, and you're determined to find out what it is.


	16. Surrogate Jiji

It seems as if, before you can even think about moving in with Dave Strider, you must first meet _every single one_ of his friends. You've met three. John, your coworker, you've known for a while.

Then, there's Jake English. Apparently, in chats, he speaks like some sort of old-timey cartoon character. He wears glasses similar to John's, but there's something slightly off about them. You can't place what it is that makes them different, but you know they are; this infuriates you.

There's Roxy, a bubbly sort. You're sure she can outclass three hundred actual clowns—not Juggalos—at a cheer contest. And you're talking professional clowns, not those two-bit street show rip-offs.

While you don't know either of them extremely well, you've also met Rose and Kanaya. You know nothing about Rose, beyond the fact that she's your absolute favorite romance author. To be honest, you'd throw yourself in front of a train for her. You'd also do the same for Dave, but with a bit less gusto.

Kanaya, though, you've spoken to. Briefly. In a car. She drove you the mall, and she seems a lot like the reserved and upright persona portrayed by Rose. Whereas Rose is more concise in person than in her writings, Kanaya is more eloquent. You also know from your avid consumption of Lalonde novels that Kanaya is Rose's editor. She's also Rose's fiancée.

Today, according to Dave, you're meeting _even more_ of his friends. This time around, it won't be as easy, either. You'll be meeting many at once, and it'll be in an uncontrolled and unpredictable setting. As it turns out, there's some sort of local Deaf culture event going on at the outdoor mall. Despite the recent snow and ice, it's still being held. (It's not dangerous to go. All the roads have been cleared and salted.)

At this minute, however, you're getting a lesson on holding your own terror-induced shit.

You've heard of distracted driving.

What you've never heard of—and, in context, you suppose you wouldn't have (ha-ha, look at you, being funny in your moment of terror)—is no-hands driving. _"You'll love Jane. She's super sweet, but she'll rip you a new asshole if you piss her off. Kind of like you, actually!"_ Dave laughs heartily.

You stifle a scream. While it won't damage Dave's hearing or bother him, it will certainly bother you. After wiggling your claws free of where they've buried themselves within the car's upholstered seats, you offer a response. _"Both hands on the wheel, you danger-boning fuck-for-brains!"_ These insults don't come across nearly as well in sign language as they do in your head. You make a mental note to start thinking of better ASL insults.

Dave, after rolling his eyes, responds aloud, "Shit." Considering this is the one word (of two, now, since he knows your name) he can rapidly and clearly articulate, he's learned to create varying intensities of shit. This one is soft, playful, but still vaguely annoyed. You assume this is due to the fact that Dave often drives like this, but you're not supporting this shitty habit.

Perhaps the funniest thing about this event is _how goddamned loud_ it is. People have grouped up into clusters, forming cow-like spots all over the mall. Of course, people sometimes migrate from one group to another; invariably, though, they will always return to their original collective. Your particular group has been hanging out in front of the ice cream parlor.

Here, you've met two new people.

The first is Jane. She's tall, curvy, and could probably beat the shit out of you with a singular tooth. Red oval glasses, black hair styled in a standard pixie cut, and skin that's perfectly in-between the pure, and still admittedly gorgeous darkness of Roxy's skin and the paper-white paleness of Dave's. That's to say, she's smack-dab in the middle of what you assume to be the human skin color spectrum. (This is, of course, unless you're wrong. Maybe, somewhere out there, there's an orange asscrack of a human being, who the hell knows?) She reminds you of John, though in a more subdued way.

The second is Dirk. He looks similar to Dave, but shares more physical traits with Rose. A thin, pointed noise. Spiky blond hair. A tattoo of a pair of anime shades—the pointy, ridiculous sort—peeks out from beneath the collar of his shirt. It crosses over the base of his throat, and you find yourself wondering how he even managed to sit still for something like that.

Now, alongside your newfound companions, you find yourself prodding at one half of the "Super Jumbo-Level" sized mint chocolate chip ice cream. Dave ordered it, and his stupid grin was just too sincere for you to break his heart by telling him actually hate this flavor. You've never been big on mint. In fact, if you really think about it, most trolls don't like mint.

 _"Dave, have you eaten all of your side of the ice cream already?"_ Dirk, from his place across from you, asks. He frowns, his lips narrowing slightly as he does. According to his introduction, he can only hear through his right ear.

In response to his cousin's inquiry, Dave quirks a brow. He stares, first, at his side of the bowl. Then, he eyes your side. He shoots you a look akin to a begging child. If you go deeper into the analogy, he's probably pointing at a massive bag of tooth-rotting candy and sobbing for you to buy it. He nudges your shoulder, making sure he has your attention, before speaking up (metaphorically). _"Well, it's not like you're eating it."_

 _"It's freezing outside,"_ you counter.

Roxy rolls her eyes. Folding her arms across her chest, she props her feet up on the table. The tiny, cat-shaped bells at the ends of her boots' shoelaces jingle slightly.

Dave shrugs. _"There's never a bad time for ice cream."_

 _"That's true!"_ interjects Jake.

Dirk snickers. _"You've got ice cream on your crotch, sweetie."_

"FUCK!" Jake exclaims aloud as he grabs a massive handful of napkins. When he tosses some aside, they're covered in strawberry ice cream; Dirk, despite the award-winning smirk on his face, wasn't lying.

 _"Is that some sort of sex thing?"_ Roxy inquires, taking her feet off the table to clear the visual space around her. _"The ice cream on Jake's crotch? I feel like that's innuendo."_

 _"It could be,"_ Dirk responds. The way he waggles his brows makes his genetic relation to Dave absolutely clear. His eyes—an odd shade of orange, and possibly tinted by contacts—drift towards you. He scrutinizes you for a moment before continuing. _"Dave wants your ice cream, Karkat. You might want to make a decision."_

 _"I do not want his ice cream!"_ counters Dave, his statement further enhanced by an indignant grunt. _"I just want some of it."_

 _"Have all of it,"_ you say (still metaphorically, as you can assume your mental italic font indicates). With as casual an air as you can muster, you shove the bowl towards Dave.

Not surprisingly, he immediately begins shoveling the frozen dairy product into his open maw. That's another thing about Dave. He doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks. This can be both a good thing and a bad thing. On the plus side, he's confident—at least, he is outwardly. The negative side is in action right now, as you try to inch your chair away from him.

Unfortunately, the table isn't all that large. You can only get about two centimeters away from him. Still, you feel the need to declare, _"I have no idea who he is!"_

 _"Trust me,"_ Jane reassures you, patting you on the shoulder, _"I don't, either."_

Roxy, rolling her eyes, also joins in. _"Count me out. I'm not even related to him!"_

 _"Neither am I,"_ responds Jane.

 _"Well, I definitely don't know him,"_ Dirk adds, completing the entire circle of stupidity.

By now, you're losing track of the conversation. While topic shifts are always clearly noted, you can't help but feel as if there's too much going on. You can only handle one person signing at a time, and the discussion is devolving into a wild free-for-all. Your mind is spinning and, after Dirk's assertion, you give up.

You sit back and relax, feeling content with just letting yourself enjoy the company of others.

Thinking about it, you haven't had any moments like this since you moved to Skaia. You didn't know anyone beyond John, so social outings were always one-on-one. Not that you disliked these events, but they always lacked the energy and comradery of a group. There wasn't a sense of belonging and, despite the fact that more than half of the discussion is starting to fly over your head, you're finally starting to feel like you belong to something.


	17. The Princess Who Loves Insects

**\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **began pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

 **CG: I'M ABSOLUTELY FUCKING FLABBERGASTED. BAM-FUCKING-BOOZLED. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. YOU ARE ACTUALLY CONTACTING ME AT A REASONABLE TIME, DAVE! WHAT IS THE SPECIAL OCCASION?  
CG: UM... ARE YOU ACTUALLY THERE, OR ARE YOU JUST CIRCLEJERKING ME INTO THE NETHERFUCK AND LEAVING ME THERE?  
CG: OKAY. THAT'S FUCKING COOL.**

 **TG: well it won't let me upload images but damn i worked so hard on this i'm fuckin pissed  
TG: fuck you pesterchum  
TG: okay so i guess i gotta describe it to you  
TG: so it's the "we are all blank" meme**

 **CG: I AM NOT DEALING WITH YOUR MEME GARBAGE.**

 **TG: *fuckin rude*  
TG: AS I WAS SAYING  
TG: the "we are all" meme but it says "we are all paying dave's rent"**

 **CG: IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN ANYTHING TO ME BESIDES THE FACT THAT YOU'RE A CYBER-FUCKING TURDSTOMP?**

 **TG: how quickly they, who wander in the shadow of the valley of people who squash fuckin poop with their nasty goddamn feet, forget the meaning  
TG: it is a true travesty  
TG: a woeful tale to be told throughout the ages**

 **CG: FUCKING SHIT, STRIDER, DO YOU EVER STOP AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU SAY *BEFORE* YOU SAY IT?**

 **TG: that's a shit question dude of course i do  
TG: i stop, think, and then decide that i can say what i fuckin want**

 **CG: I LIKE YOU BETTER WHEN YOU'RE SIGNING. AT LEAST YOU MAKE SENSE.**

 **TG: that's your problem bro not mine but my point was  
TG: i got approved to move into the place we were talking about earlier  
TG: but we've gotta wait for a week for them to make sure it's structurally sound and shit**

 **CG: THANK FUCKING GOD. NO MORE LIVING WITH THE ACTUAL SHIT-CHUTE OF THE UNIVERSE.**

 **TG: nice one**

 **CG: I TRY. NOW, HOW FUCKING NEW ARE THESE THINGS?**

 **TG: they're just being inspected now so they're pretty fuckin new  
TG: i think prospit apartments just finished construction a few days ago actually so these are top line brand new got that new apartment smell and everything**

 **CG: SOUNDS EXPENSIVE.**

 **TG: actually nah here's the cool part  
TG: so this guy i know  
TG: he calls himself the mayor kinda weird but real sweet  
TG: he knows *everyone* and he got me this sweet deal on the rent  
TG: this place also lets me bring a dog so guess who's getting a fuckin dog?  
TG: lemme do the hard shit for you kit-kat it's me i'm getting a dog**

 **CG: HEY, SHIT-SPEWER, DID YOU MAYBE THINK I MIGHT BE ALLERGIC TO DOGS?**

 **TG: oh fuck**

 **CG: I'M FUCKING WITH YOU. I'M NOT. BUT DON'T GET ONE OF THOSE TINY DOGS. OR A BIG ONE.**

 **TG: so you mean  
TG: you want a medium dog  
TG: because i got a friend named jade who's actually john's cousin and she breeds dogs  
TG: super cute mid-sized and smart**

 **CG: I'M NOT SURE "SMART" IS AN APT CLASSIFICATION, CONSIDERING THE COMPETITION.**

 **TG: i am truly hurt that you would say that, kit-kat  
TG: look at the tears which fall from my eyes like big ghibli drops of betrayal  
TG: boo hoo boo hoo etc etc**

 **CG: OKAY, YOU'RE REALLY STRETCHING IT, LEONARDO DICAPRISUN.**

 **TG: you got that joke from the internet**

 **CG: REALLY!? AND WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK MEMES COME FROM? DO YOU THINK I JUST MAGICALLY PULL THEM FROM MY ASS LIKE A SIMS CHARACTER!?**

 **TG: ha karkat plays sims  
TG: karkat can't find enough amusement in his own real life so he simulates another life  
TG: ha ha**

 **CG: I *USED* TO PLAY SIMS. FUCK OFF, STRIDER.**

 **TG: i cannot i am alone  
TG: i could fuck myself off**

 **CG: FUCKING DISGUSTING.**

 **TG: damn you're really easy to fuck with this is just so much fun!  
TG: but i gotta go so hey nice chatting with you see ya round kit-kat**

 **CG: I WILL FUCKING RIP YOUR FACE OFF. QUIT CALLING ME KIT-KAT, YOU GODDAMNED ROACH-SUCKER.**

 **TG: sure thing kit-kat**

 **\- turntechGodhead** **[TG]** **ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**


	18. The Valley of the Wind

"You know, Egbert," you say, leaning across the main counter to look at your friend and coworker, "Do you ever feel like this whole place is a front?"

"A front?" John hums. "Yeah. Totally. We're fronting for the writer behind the curtain, pulling our strings and making us do these weird little dances, where we all get into a line and start kicking."

"That's the can-can," you groan, "And I mean a legitimate goddamned crime organization, Egbert, not another of those weird alien theories."

Shrugging, John brushes aside your commentary. He rebukes your statement with one of his own, though its relevance is unknown to you. "There's a taiko event at the art museum in a few days," he comments, scrutinizing one of the crystal balls on display. "Ever been to one?"

"Yes?" you respond, puzzled by this sudden topic shift. It occurs to you that you've grown used to Dave, who seems to stay (primarily) on the same conversation path, only deviating if he makes a clear distinction. This, you assume, is a communication trait he's picked up over the years. "Taiko's the Japanese drum music, right? Really loud, vaguely obnoxious?"

"Yeah!" John grins. "So, you know what it is!"

"I've heard of them before. And there was one at my old high school once. It gave me a goddamned headache." Even thinking about it brings back memories of what might have been the worst migraine of your entire life (to date, of course). "Why should I care that there's one at the art museum at fuck-knows-when?"

"Because Dave loves it," John shrugs. You need to start giving him more credit. He knows what he's doing. His expression takes on the air of someone who knows you've been cornered the minute he recognizes your realization. And, he pounces on it like an eager cat on a mouse. "Funny enough, Dave's always been big into music. Taiko is one of his things. Loud, rhythmic, and easily felt. He's a huge fan of rock music, too, but he's more for bands with more bass."

"Why are you telling me this?"

John, strategically ignoring your question, continues, "I've known him since we were shitting in diapers, dude. It's weird. But, my point is that he loved music before he could even really hear it. There were plenty of times in daycare and early elementary school where he'd hijack a radio and turn it up all the way."

"Egbert!" you snap, "What the fuck does any of this matter!?"

" _Well_ ," John purrs, a mischievous look shining in his eyes, "I just so happen to have two members-only tickets for a behind-the-scenes look at it. You get to meet the drummers and, if you want—and I'm guessing Dave will be revving to take a shot—try playing. I don't really want to go, so..." His smile morphs into a smirk, his brows quirk to express nothing less than pure gotcha cockiness. "Maybe you'd like to be the first to ask for a date?"

"No!" you declare, shaking your head. "No! Abso-fucking-lutely not! I am not going to ask Dave Strider to date me just before I go off to college. That's both rude and unfair." You let forth a huff of disgruntled air, puffing your cheeks out a bit as you do so. Again, you find that you're assimilating some of Dave's finer mannerisms. For the past week or so, you've been keenly aware of the fact that you've gotten more gestural. Your body language is changing, shifting towards something slightly more open than before. "I've already taken a year off. I'm going to college in the fall if it fucking kills me."

"You applied for Skaia," John points out, adjusting his glasses, so that they once again rest at the proper position on the bridge of his nose, "I don't see why you couldn't date Dave _and_ go to school."

"Because I'm focusing on school?" you retort, vaguely offended that he even suggested that you deviate from your studies. If you don't have a degree, you don't have the same job opportunities. And, less job opportunities means less of a chance to get out of this suburban hell. "Look, I know you made a bet, but I don't have a goddamned thing to do with the fact that you have raw noodles for brains."

Despite your words, you can't help but find yourself wondering what it would be like.

You've recently been paid.

You could take Dave to the event, then treat him to a meal at the upscale museum café afterwards. You've always loved their cuisine, and you would happily murder a man for some of their seafood pasta.

Though you condemn yourself for it, you can't help but picture Dave's reaction. There's that stupid, lopsided grin, and—despite inner protest—you find that it evokes that same warm, fuzzy feeling as always. He'll thank you, his hands moving with the same, fluid grace that you've come to admire. It's a perfect foil to your signing, which is faltering and ham-fisted.

"Fine," the word, like those that follow, rises from deep within your chest. It springs from the midst of your inner turmoil, and pushes out like a desperate escape artist. In regards to this analogy, the escape artist must be awful at his job, because he's damned near drowning when he finally breaks out of the box. "What time is it?"

"It's tomorrow, at 3:00 PM. If you don't like the noise, then I'd suggest taking earplugs." Handing the tickets over, John pats you on the back. "Dave has plenty of them."

"What the fuck does Strider have earplugs for?" you sputter. In your hand, you now hold two small tickets, both printed on a semi-rigid, shiny surface. "And how the fuck did you get these? You can't be a member of the museum."

John snickers. He answers your questions in order, addressing each. "He has a bad habit of inviting his hearing friends to Deaf clubs, and trust me when I say those places are _fucking loud_. Second, I'm not a member. My sister, Jade, is." He punctuates this with a shrug.

And you, after stashing the tickets away in your wallet, resume your duty as the world's most disinterested and least bothered cashier.

Later, after the store begins to wind down for the day, you send Dave a text. He confirms his availability.


	19. The Battle Drums

You're certain that neither Kankri nor Cronus know where you're going or what you're going doing. They're bother under the assumption that you're going to the art museum to meet Kanaya, who has graciously agreed (once again) to pick you up from the apartment complex. Once Kankri and Cronus see her, they walk away from you and return inside, allowing you to clamber into Kanaya's hot pink Smart Car and fasten your seatbelt.

As soon as this is done, she reaches over and tugs at your tie. When you shoot her a befuddled look, she responds with a grin. "Your tie was crooked," she explains, "I fixed it for you."

"Thanks," you muter, smoothing out the silken fabric. "So, what? This is just drumming and yelling, if I remember correctly. Last time I saw one of these, it was for an event at my godawful high school."

"Actually, performances such as the one you'll be viewing are typical of feudal warfare practices," Kanaya announces this as if it's something everyone should know. As you near the stop sign at the end of your street, she even shoots you a concerned glance—one that says something akin to "how the fuck did you not know this, you butt-licking ding-dong?"

You, however, have a much less intelligent response. Still nervous about this upcoming meeting, all your mind can manage to scrounge up as an answer is, "What?"

"They were used for war, often implemented to raise the morale of and to rally troops." After flipping off a truck, which cut you off, she continues to calmly continue, "They're also used in some _kabuki_ and _Noh_ theater performances."

"How the fuck do you know this?" you sputter, your brows furrowing, "Did you look this up this morning?"

"Well, I'm all for helping a friend of my acquaintance, John, so it is quite possibly that I may have done some basic searches in regards to this topic." You think you see a smirk play at the edges of Kanaya's lips. Then again, you're not sure about it. Perhaps it was something you imagined. "They're played by hitting the surface with _bachi_ , also the word for the plectrums used to play stringed instruments."

You, at this point, simply nod. "Thanks, Wikipedia."

"Indeed." Kanaya, notably, doesn't dispute your allegation. You assume this is because she _did_ use Wikipedia. Then again, she's also a bit of a human history buff. "Anyhow, you'll be able to pick me up afterwards, right?"

She nods. "Certainly, Karkat. Unless something else comes up, I'll arrive promptly at 5:00 to ferry you back to your brother's apartment."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," you sigh. You gently tug at the ribbon affixed to the small, newspaper-wrapped present in your lap.

You figured that, if this _was_ a date, you might as well present Dave with something. You purchased some supplies for a standard acoustic guitar. It seemed odd to you, picking up music supplies, that is, but you're not about to question John's judgement. Someone with money invested in the success of a relationship isn't going to send you off with a shitty gift.

* * *

When you arrive, you find Dave dressed casually. You vaguely remember asking him to wear something more formal, but you're not about to contest this. He looks fine. Better than fine, perhaps.

 _"I've staked out two seats at the front row,"_ Dave signs, grinning. As you approach, he hands you a packet of earplugs. He grabs your wrist and drags you forwards, though, so you have little time to put them in. Instead, you shove them into your pocket.

When you finally stop, you find that Dave is true to his word. He's even brought along a blanket. Bright red, with a large, dark red gear in the center. This is folded in half, then set out longways for the two of you to sit on.

 _"This is the comfiest blanket I have,"_ he explains, patting the spot beside him.

As your ass touches down on the target, you have to agree. It's thick, fluffy, and feels almost like a seat cushion. Set before you are two rows of three large drums, each set upon stands. The sides face outwards. However, this _is_ a date. You figure you need to say something. So, you start something new. _"You like these drumming things?"_

 _"I love these shows,"_ Dave offers another conversation-starter. _"They're amazing. They're lively!"_ Against all expectations, his grin widens. He looks like the spitting image of a child in a candy store.

You find this endearing. You can't help it. While you'd never expect to have fallen for Dave Strider, it's happening. You hate to admit it, but it's happening. _"You can't hear it, though."_

 _"I don't need to,"_ Dave leans in, a bit closer to you, and grabs your hand. He presses it to his chest.

Since you didn't expect it, you can't help but bit your lip. If you were a human, you'd blush; trolls, however, don't blush. Beneath your palm, you can feel his heartbeat. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum_. It's steady, clear, and deep. The warmth seems to flow into your hand, then through your body. It settles in your stomach.

And, as you unconsciously allow your hand to stay on his chest, he continues, signing, _"It's just like that. I wouldn't hear it, even with the implants. They're too loud, and I'd get feedback."_ He shrugs, then gestures towards the performance area.

As if on cue, the drums start. They're loud and powerful, and you withdraw your hand from shock. The vibrations ring in your ears and literally rattle your bones. It overpowers everything and, despite your first impression of the music, it's amazing. It distracts you. And, if Dave bobbing his head is anything to go by, he's enjoying it, too.

And, visually, it's enrapturing. The performers dance and jump and spin, all in time with one another. They pass each other, exchanging drums and circling them, then one another.

They run through songs, one after the other, in rapid succession. Their speed never slows, and their energy never falters.

By the end, you've revised your former opinions of the music.

Dave, meanwhile, seems to have retained an already-present love for it. He babbles incessantly about it, and waits as the group begins to disassemble the audio equipment. On and on. It was amazing. Fantastic. Superb.

His energy, like the excitement from earlier, nuzzles into your heart. Like a dog wanting a belly rub, it picks at you until you can't resist it. You find yourself smiling; his joy is contagious. And, now, you think it's a good time to reveal the surprise. _"Our tickets give us some alone time with the leader of the group."_

Dave shoves your shoulder, his eyes wider than the widest, wildest cartoon eyes you've ever seen. _"You're shitting me,"_ he says, wagging his fingers disapprovingly. _"That's not funny."_

 _"No, really,"_ you huff as you sign this. _"Then, I've got to go!"_ From here, he practically skips off, following the signs pointing to the private library. The arrows promise behind-the-scenes looks at the performances, and you're more than happy to follow Dave in.

The leader is a tall, gaunt man with chiseled features and fucking huge hands. His hair is pure black, and his smile contagious. He introduces himself as George, and he tells a tale of being the son of immigrant parents. He took up taiko as a hobby, and fell in love.

You relay this information to Dave, and he happily excuses your mistakes.

When it's your turn to speak to George, you find yourself with the perfect foil to Kankri. He's truly passionate, energetic, and patient. He gives Dave time to ask questions, and—like the five people before you—allows him to try his hand at the drum set up beside him.

This is when you realize that Dave, despite what you'd honestly expect, has musical talent. While he doesn't have the grace and performing flare of the professionals, he has the rhythmic skill. If you dare say it, he has an ear for it, too.

When your time is up, you depart. Now, it's your turn to drag Dave behind you.

* * *

Late lunch goes perfectly.

In fact, the entire day has gone without so much as a hiccup.

Being who you are, this concerns you.

But, things go well.

Everything goes well, at least until you get home.

The minute you step into the building, Cronus grabs you by the wrist. He snarls, his breath reeking of alcohol, and slams you against the wall. "I can smell that bastard on you," he thunders, "Kanaya doesn't smoke. I know she doesn't. Kurloz told me so. But that bastard," Cronus turns his head, spits on the floor, then continues, "He smokes."

Kankri, from behind your new brother-in-law (as of yesterday) smirks. "My boyfriend has a good nose, and I invested in it. I know you've been seeing Dave." He throws an envelope, and it lands at your feet. From it, blurry photos of you and Dave—at the arcade, Mage's Emporium, and even the museum—spill forth. They dig into you like the glint of animism—pure, unfiltered hatred—in your brother's eyes. "Take him to his room, then lock it."

Cronus nods, and tacks on an additional insult. He runs his claws against the faux brick wall, peeling away four fine lines of plastic, before slicing them across your face The wound is, obviously, painful, and the shock makes it so you can't place where it is. He turns his nose up at the sight of your blood—a vivid, mutant candy red. "He won't like you so much after that, now, will he?"

Instead of protesting—as he should be, considering he's your brother—Kankri laughs. "I didn't think of that," he hums. Then, with the tone of someone admiring a hero, he continues, "You continue to amaze me, sweetie."

"I try," Cronus purrs. He turns to you, forces your hands behind your back, and shoves you along, into your room, and, then, he slams the door in your face.

You, still in a state of profound shock, can do little more than scrounge around your room for something to put on your still-bleeding wounds. You look in the mirror, and note that the gashes are deep. Four parallel lines run near-horizontally across your face, crossing over your nose and spanning from approximately the center of one cheek to another. You know it will leave scars, and that was Cronus' intention.

Shit.

How did you ever think that you could have a good day? Of course you wouldn't.

Shit.

You stumble to the door, and a glance through the keyhole informs you that a bookshelf has been shoved in front of it.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you feel as if you won't be going to work tomorrow.


	20. Two Hearts

**Your name is Dave Strider.**

 **As a narrator, you're shit. Or, at least, as a decent narrator, who fills people in on what goes down, you are. You can most definitely say what's up, but what** _ **used**_ **to be up is no one's business but yours. No one else needs to know who you are, where you come from, or what happened in your past. All of that is for you to know, and for others to never find out. Ever.**

 **What you will say—what you** _ **can**_ **say—about the past is that you had the best time of your life with Karkat. You enjoyed every second you were with him, and loved every stupid, over-the-top dorky thing he did. The way he'd look away when he realized you knew he was looking at you. The way he smiled when he recognized your joy, only to instantly shift to an insincere scowl when you looked at him. You loved the way he'd lean against you, seemingly without noticing, before he would suddenly sit upright, chewing on his lip. He's a wonderful guy, if not a bit brash. But, then again, you can come across strong, too. He compliments you, and you'd like to think that you compliment him.**

 **He seemed to have been as happy as you were on the date.**

 **Yet, now, you can't get him to even reply to your texts. He won't meet you, and he's sent you several menacing texts. Then again, they use lowercase letters, so they** _ **can't**_ **be his. But, somewhere in your heart, you can't help but feel betrayed. Somewhere, deep down, you wonder if it's the same situation as every other one before.**

 **You wouldn't trade your identity—you wouldn't trade being Deaf—for anything. But, sometimes, it annoys you, but it's who you are. It's part of you, and you love it. But, it's a pain in the ass, sometimes.**

* * *

It's late January—closer to February, really—and you haven't seen Karkat in weeks. He hasn't shown up to work, and he was eventually fired. Seeing as he never shows up any more, you wonder if he knows this. You're guessing he does.

Right now, however, you find yourself facing him. He bears four new scars—parallel lines, which run horizontally across the center of his face—and a newfound air of anxious energy. He keeps a good amount of distance between himself and the people around him, and is clearly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he stands in the doorway of your new apartment, and is clearly ready to start moving in.

 _"Where the fuck have you been?"_ you ask this immediately, as you're naturally suspicious of recent events. There's something about him—something you can't quite place—that reminds you of yourself. _"And why didn't you tell me you were coming."_

He shrugs. He says something aloud, frowns, and shifts to signing. This is something else that's new; he's gotten better. You'd still classify him as someone who doesn't put as much emotional energy into his gestures, but he's improved. He's already surpassed John. (The again, a panda can offer more emotional ASL than John.) _"Some shit came up. I'm sorry."_ He looks around, eyeing the blank off-white walls with a sense of disdain. _"You didn't decorate?"_

 _"I've been waiting for you,"_ is your honest response. You smile, and the reaction is immediate.

The tension in his shoulders dissipates. He mirrors your expression, though his is more symmetrical. Most people have more symmetrical expressions; as a side-effect from your implant, you have some mild facial paralysis. It's something subtle—extremely, outrageously subtle—and most people don't notice. It doesn't bother you, but it's something that's always in the back of your mind. _"That's so sweet. I think I'm going to puke."_

 _"How touching."_ You roll your eyes. When you grab his hand to pull him inside, it's as warm as you've come to expect. It's soft, and small enough to fit perfectly within yours. _"Your room is down the hallway. I'll start bringing in shit, too."_

He nods.

Over the course of the next few hours, the two of you unpack a handful of belongings. A computer. Some clothes. Bedsheets. It's not much, and it's a lot like the meager possessions you had when you fled from Bro. This fact, however, doesn't cross your mind until later. For now, you're content to help Karkat unpack.

It doesn't take long for you to get everything out, and you leave Karkat alone for an hour or two to unpack.

When you return, you find that he's finished setting up his room. The only nonfunctional, purely decorative item is an old photo of a cat, which is taped to his bed's headboard. _"It's boring. I know."_ He greets you with this statement, and offers you a small smile.

 _"We'll just have to fill it up,"_ you reply. After this, you motion for Karkat to wait. You sprint out of the room, into yours, and snatch up one of your many blankets. (As a visual, tactile person, you have a bad habit of collecting things that appeal to both senses. And, when you say "bad," you mean "might possibly turn into what kills you, as your corpse will be found buried beneath a pile of plush blankets.") The one you choose is solid black, save for the image of a crab emblazoned in light grey at its center.

You rush back to Karkat's room and present this to him. _"To start your collection,"_ you comment, smirking as he reacts with mild disgust.

He scrutinizes the blanket and, after a solid minute of nothing, he tosses it aside to sign, _"That's fucking hideous."_ He furrows his brows, turns up his nose, but still adds, _"I love it."_


	21. Going Out

"In other news, Newhaven mayor, Wilhelm Vagabond X, was recently spotted petting kangaroos at the city zoo. Here is the adorable picture." Despite the fact that the picture is, indeed, adorable, it fails to enthrall you. Nothing about the news enthralls you, really, and you're surprised Dave has it on. He's not watching it. Instead, he's busied himself with the task of—for some inexplicable reason—gluing together a bunch of binder clips and popsicle sticks.

"An escaped cow held up rail traffic from Newhaven to Scotchtown earlier this morning. The tired animal was spotted by the train's conductor, who sent us this picture." You sigh. Clearly, there is absolutely nothing interesting happening in Skaia. Even if there was, you wouldn't care. You wouldn't care if there was a goddamned nuclear missile heading for your town. It's all just shitty media coverage to you, and you've had enough of it.

You pick up the remote and switch the channel.

This prompts a verbal response from Dave. Not surprisingly, it's a loud exclamation of, "Shit!"

You jump.

He jumps.

For a solid minute, both of you stare at one another like startled deer.

Finally, you break the silence (metaphorically). _"You weren't even watching the show!"_ you huff, puffing your chest out to try and make yourself vaguely more menacing. _"Why are you so upset?"_

 _"I was feeling the news vibes,"_ he lies. You _know_ he's lying, because he promptly breaks down, into a fit of giggles. After he recovers, he approaches you. He gently swats your hands aside, preventing you from responding as he explains, _"No. I don't mind. Just tell me before you change the channel. I don't like when people do that. It's like you're stepping over me, banking on me not hearing the channel change."_

 _"That's not why I did it,"_ you reply quickly, not wanting to offend your newfound roommate. At the same time, you _are_ still in a relationship with him, so there's that. _"I just don't like the news."_

 _"I know."_ He holds his right hand—the fingers formed into a fist—next to his forehead. A swift flicking motion brings the index finger upwards, so that it points to the ceiling. From there, he continues, smiling that stupidly cute half-smile of his, _"I'm saying it for next time. Because I'm sure we don't have the same taste in television."_

You, vaguely offended by this jab, pout. _"Really!? Name a show you like!"_

 _"None of them!"_ Dave laughs. It's his usual loud, booming laughter. It won't carry to other rooms, though, as the walls are soundproofed. _"That's why I said we don't have the same taste."_

 _"Why don't you like television!?"_ you ask, confused as hell. _"There's a show for everyone!"_

 _"Not all shows are nice enough to have closed captions,"_ Dave shrugs after signing this. He runs his fingers through this hair, pausing briefly when they pass over the spot where his CI is usually fitted. _"Besides, I have better things to do with my time."_

 _"Like what?"_ you ask.

He, smirking, responds with a quick kiss on your cheek. _"Like that."_

Your heart soars, and you feel as if you've been touched by some sort of strange, shitty angel. Nonetheless, you remain outwardly impassive. _"Whatever. Are you doing anything later today?"_

 _"It's my day off!"_ Dave's smile grows, though the left side stays about the same, continuing the lopsided theme. He rises from the armchair, where he's been assembling what appears to be a roughly shaped pterodactyl made of binder clips and popsicle sticks, and plops onto the sofa. _"I thought I'd just hang around with my boyfriend."_

 _"Yeah. Whatever."_ You shrug, then sit beside him. The commercials have ended, and you find that the channel you flipped to is showing _Parks and Rec_. When you glance towards Dave, he seems to be totally enthralled.

In fact, when he notices you looking, he comments on the show. _"My favorite is Andy. He's cool, lovable, and secretly smart."_ Dave grins, waggling his eyebrows as he concludes, _"Exactly like me."_

 _"You're not Andy,"_ you huff, rolling your eyes. _"You're April. You're aloof, but pretty to look at."_

 _"I think I'm offended,"_ Dave frowns, his brows furrowing as he seems to ponder your statement's implications. _"Although, yes, I'm April-level pretty. Thank you."_

 _"Don't let it go to your head."_ This is half a joke, and half a genuine warning. Somehow, you get the feeling that a self-inflated Dave Strider would be the most terrible thing to have to deal with on a Monday morning. _"And didn't you say you don't like television?"_

Dave nods sagely, an action which seems to mirror that of a wise master affirming a student's decision. In this case, however, you know that he will be following this with some sort of Strider brand bullshit. _"_ _Parks and Rec_ _isn't television, it's art."_

 _"You're not Dave Strider, you're a dickweed."_ You roll your eyes. To create the sign for the final part of your commentary, you simply mashed together a crude gesture with the sign for "plant". This, you're certain, doesn't come across the same way, and you have no control over how Dave interprets this. Nonetheless, the fact that he rolls his eyes at you seems indicative of the basic gist being grasped.

 _"So, what?"_ Dave frowns. He props his feet up on the coffee table, and you swiftly snatch away your prized, signed copy of _Wizards in Heat III_. After all, you don't want him to accidentally knock it off of the table. _"We're just going to act like nothing happened for the past few weeks?"_

 _"Yeah,"_ you nod eagerly as you sign. This only serves to reinforce your point. You want it to be perfectly clear: You do _not_ want to speak about what's happened lately. While you know you need to, you're not yet ready Of course, when you are ready, the first person you'll be speaking to is Dave.

And, to your relief, he backs down. He offers you a smile, though it's underscored by something you can't quite place. It's not sympathy, but it's something a lot like it. Compassion, perhaps? Affection? Understanding? You stop trying to place a name to the gesture when he begins signing, _"I bought some microwave meals, but I guess it would be rude for your first breakfast here to be something that any ass with a microwave could make."_

You're not sure about this. You'd be perfectly fine with a microwaved meal, but, sensing his eagerness, you keep your mouth shut, and your hands remain firmly buried in the front pocket of your sweatshirt.

 _"I made you some cinnamon pancakes. Mom taught me how to make them. That was before she and Dad got into that crash."_ He shrugs aside the latter part. Nonetheless, this explains to you why he often refers to some enigmatic douche-tool, "Bro", as his guardian.

Returning his favor, you don't press him on the topic. _"I like cinnamon,"_ you admit. _"I'm not sure how it would work in a pancake."_

He begins his next gesture by raising his hands to roughly chest level. The palms face inwards, and the fingers are held loosely upwards. A swift flick of the wrist ends the gesture, with the palms facing upwards. _"Well, you put some cinnamon in pancake batter. Then, you make the pancake. It's not that hard."_

 _"Don't be a smartass,"_ you huff.

He laughs.

The sound sends a warm, pleasant feeling shooting throughout you, like some sort of euphoric drug. Then again, this isn't the best comparison; you're pretty sure that falling for someone isn't exactly illegal. It might not be Kankri-approved, and it's certainly not what you would have imagined a few years ago, but it's definitely not illegal.

By the time the feeling has dissipated, he's returned. He sets a plate, upon which is a stack of three fairly sizable pancakes, and sets it on your lap. _"Eat up."_

You oblige, and quickly find the pancakes to be to your liking. In fact, you make a mental note to ask for the recipe later. _"Fuck. These are delicious."_

 _"They are,"_ reaffirms Dave. His statement straddles the line between sincerity and self-gratification. Whichever of the two it's supposed to be leaning towards is a mystery, and only Dave Strider knows its answer. Before you can ask for clarification, he continues. (You've come to expect this from him. It seems to be who he is—someone with thousands of things on his mind, but only so much time to say all of it.) _"How does your brother feel about you moving in with me?"_

You frown. Suddenly, you're keenly aware of everything. The way the room smells—it's a mixture of new wood and old record sleeves and tobacco smoke and pine trees. There's the ceiling fan, which, despite its newness, squeaks with each half-rotation. Dave's eyes—an odd, reddish-brown—stare expectantly, seeming to dig through you as they never have before. You feel small. Your heart races. Finally, you gather yourself enough to regurgitate nothing more than a through-and-through lie. You let it spill from your fingers, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt wash over you as you do. _"He's fine with it. Don't worry."_ You force yourself to smile.

And it seems as if Dave is wary of this reply. His brows furrow, and his jaw sets. But, it's only for a moment—a blink of the eye—and it might have been your imagination. No. It was _definitely_ your imagination. You reassure yourself of this. His response confirms it. _"Cool. I guess he's not so bad after all."_

You avoid answering this. Instead, with every beat of your heart pounding against the walls of your chest, you shift the topic from yourself to your roommate. _"How've you been for the past few weeks? I haven't been able to talk much. Some shit went down."_

 _"Sorry about the shit."_ Out of context, the statement would seem insincere. Dave, however, is as serious as the nuclear launch codes. He holds his hand—forming an "A", with the thumb sticking a bit higher up than usual—under his chin. A quick, forceful movement forwards flows into the next motion, which begins with his hands held as if he's holding a small balloon. He moves them outwards, as if dropping it. _"Not much."_

In reply, you offer a small smile. The pounding of your heart begins to fade away. It calms, lowering from an overwhelming beat to a soft hum. Soon, you're certain it will be gone. Until then, you focus on Dave. _"No. Really. Tell me what's been happening, you douchebag."_

Dave offers a reluctant sigh. He rolls his eyes and slouches dramatically, looking an awful lot like a disgruntled stereotypical teenage girl. _"Fine!"_ he exclaims. He repeats this for emphasis. _"I got a new job. Actually, funny enough, I took your old job."_ He looks uncomfortable.

Naturally, you comfort him. _"It's fine. What else?"_

 _"I told you. Not much has happened."_ He shrugs. _"I've seen some pretty clever insults, though. Or, at least, John has translated them for me."_

 _"You take insults well,"_ you respond. This is something you've always admired about Dave. Even before you knew him as well as you do now, you'd known him as a tough guy to crack. You've heard of the sorts of things people will say to him from John, and you've always been amazed at how he can let them slide off, like a soap bar slipping from your wet, slimy hands.

He simply nods. _"Thanks. I think I've said it before, but it's just something I've always dealt with. Some people are rude little shits. You have to ignore them, or else you won't get anywhere without turning into a sobbing lump on the floor."_ Here, he pauses. He offers you a sheepish smile, and he fidgets for a moment before continuing, _"It does get to me sometimes, though."_

 _"You're kidding,"_ you respond, incredulous of his claim. _"You're Dave Strider!"_ to emphasize your statement, you puff your cheeks out a bit. Your expression is akin to the look you'd give someone if they grew a second head. Technically, you only use his name sign; in your mind, you translate it to his full name.

Dave, of course, understands the meaning behind your expressive inflections. _"No!"_ He, too, ass emphasis. He furrows his brows, tenses his shoulders, and—all in all—creates an air of vague defensiveness. _"It's true! I just know when to talk it out. Rose helps a lot."_

 _"Well, then, I'm happy to help,"_ you reply, smiling.

By now, you've calmed. Your former unease has dispersed.

And, Dave seems to sense this. He edges a bit closer to you. _"I might take you up on that offer."_ He punches you gently on the shoulder, then—to your pleasant surprise—he leans his head against your shoulder. _"Now, shut up. Another episode is starting."_


	22. A Journey (Italian Winds)

You've never been to a D&D game. In fact, you've always thought Dungeons and Dragons was just some sort of strange human ritual. Something that creative humans did to display to other creative humans just how goddamned creative they were. "Look at me," the creative humans say to the other creative humans, "I'm so much _more_ creative than you!"

Apparently, this is not the case.

On the other hand, you're unsure of whether or not a Deaf Dungeons and Dragons—or, as Dave calls it, a Triple-D Sized Nerd Bra—is different from a regular session. Everyone—Roxy, Dirk, Dave, Jake, and Jade—have reassured you that DD&D is no different from regular Dungeons and Dragons, save for the communication being solely ASL.

Now, Jade is a new human. (Although, as John mentioned, she's his sister.) You have only met her today, but she seems like a synthesis of John's, Roxy's, and Jane's personalities. She's bubbly, upbeat, and damned gorgeous. (The again, you think a lot of people are pretty.) Long, straight black hair, light brown skin, and a small but distinct nose. (The nose is important because, from the side, it makes her profile look like a piece of fine art.) According to Dave, she's the only one in the group (except for you, of course) with no hearing problems. He briefly dated her in high school, only to find out that he's gay as fuck. She knows ASL thanks to her parents, who taught her some when she was a baby. Later, she, like you, took classes throughout high school.

 _"Jade is the DM, or Dungeon Master. She controls the game, tells us what we can and can't do, and makes sure no one fucks up the whole thing."_ Dave explains this to you literally under the table. You have to strain your neck to his signing, and it's an awkward position. You don't exactly enjoy staring at his crotch, either, but you're not about to interrupt the game to tell him this.

As if prompted by Dave's commentary, which you're certain is invisible to her due to the angle she's at, Jade clears her throat. You're comforted by the fact that her signing isn't as fluid as everyone else's; you've got at least one person to bemoan your non-native ASL problems to. _"Last time we met, we had just defeated Zort, the Evil Grand Highblood Troll-Wizard. Dave, I believe it's your turn to start. We've already looted the corpse, as one does after beating a Troll-Wizard to a bloody pulp, and split the loot."_

 _"I would like to roll to play a sad bagpipe tune for the fallen enemy,"_ Dave responds, his face as solemn as you'd imagine it would be if this was an actual dead person. Then again, you have a sneaking suspicion that this is all an act.

 _"Permission granted."_ Jade nods.

Dave rolls the dice, and peers eagerly at the results. Upon seeing the upwards-facing twenty, he slams his fists on the table. He lets forth a loud, celebratory whoop, which causes you, Jade, and Dirk to startle in unison.

After recovering from this, Jade lets forth a long sigh. She rolls her eyes and, with her hands on her hips, you imagine that she's trying to look annoyed. However, the smile on her face gives her away. _"Geromy the Bard whips out his bagpipes and plays a heartfelt rendition of_ My Heart Will Go On _. The entire group is in tears. Are you satisfied?"_ You notice that, perhaps for your sake, she spells the full name of the character.

Dave eagerly nods. _"Very much so"_

 _"Great. The heroes venture onwards."_ Jade scribbles something down in her notebook.

Dirk, meanwhile, raps his knuckles against the table to get her attention. When she looks up, he responds. _"I think we should set up camp."_

 _"Is it nighttime?"_ Roxy frowns. Her brows furrow, and the look on her face can be explained only as the purest form of confusion you've ever beheld. _"I thought it was noon."_

 _"No,"_ Jade hums as she flips through her notebook. After a few seconds, she nods. _"Dirk is right. It's nighttime. Dirk, roll to set up the tent."_

The order is followed. The die is rolled and, to your fascination, it comes up with a one.

Jade snickers.

Dirk groans. _"Don't make this into something stupid."_

 _"Too late!"_ With an unabashedly foolhardy grin, Jade proceeds, _"Blunderbuss, the orc paladin, attempts to set up the tent. He fails, impales himself with a tent post, and takes five damage."_ With this, she turns her attentions to John.

He responds with a similar smile. _"I roll to try and set up the tent."_ Having said this, he rolls a ten.

 _"Godzilla, the elf ranger, sets up the tent. It is neither exceedingly good nor exceedingly bad. The group gets a good night's rest, and everyone wakes refreshed and ready to kick ass the next day."_ Jade nods approvingly. You suspect that her clarifications of each character might be for your sake; again, you're not about to interrupt the game to ask such a trivial question.

Aside from that, you're interested in what Jake does. And, not surprisingly, he quickly sates your burgeoning curiosity. _"I guess we should make something to eat?"_

 _"You have nothing in your inventory, except for fifteen bear traps and an accordion,"_ Dirk responds. At the conclusion of his statement, he covers his face with his hands and slouches over, groaning in what you assume to be faux pain. _"Why do I date you?"_

 _"Can I set a bear trap?"_ Jake counters, then smirks at his boyfriend.

Jade simply nods. _"Sure. Don't bother rolling, Bradley, the dwarf monk is good enough at it."_

Dorkily enough, Jake does a celebratory fist pump.

Once again, it's Dave's turn. He ponders his apparent options before proposing his final decision. _"I have food. I'll make something."_ Without being approved, he rolls. Presumably, this game has been going on long enough for everyone to know what is and isn't acceptable. The result of the roll is a solid eighteen. Assuming that the twenty Dave rolled earlier resulted in a near-perfect performance, you're guessing that the higher numbers are better.

Jade prefaces her response with the standard "I'm watching you" gesture before describing the outcome of Dave's actions. _"Geromy makes an incredible carrot and clam stew. Everyone is very impressed, but Orc Gordon Ramsay would probably spit it out."_

 _"Orc Gordon Ramsay can go fuck himself,"_ Dave shrugs.

The game continues.

You, genuinely, are not interested. You've never cared much for this sort of thing, but you came because Dave wanted you to. He kept going on and on about you meeting his friends. And, admittedly, it's nice to see him having such a good time. It's not as if this is a rare thing—Dave seems to find a way to have fun doing the shittiest of things—but, it's still nice. It's also nice to get to know other people in Newhaven, seeing as your primary friends are still John and Dave.

All of this considered, it's not an awful way for you to spend two hours.

At the conclusion, Jade writes a few notes before inviting everyone to Waffle House. Apparently, this is some sort of tradition.

 _"It's the after-game offering,"_ Dave explains, jokingly, of course.

You roll your eyes. You decide not to dignify this with a reasonable answer, and simply move on to asking him something that's been on your mind for the past few days. _"Are you planning on getting a new CI?"_

Dave's smirk fades, and it quickly turns to a small frown. _"No,"_ he admits, _"I wasn't planning on it."_

 _"You weren't?"_ You'd honestly expected for him to say that it would be soon. After all, he's no longer paying the full rent. And you're using money you literally stole from Kankri's sock drawer on your way out to pay him. Right now, you've got enough for two more months of residency while you find a job. _"Why not?"_

 _"I don't think I need one,"_ Dave shrugs. It seems he, too, wasn't expecting your reaction. You must have come across as looking more shocked than you'd meant to. _"I'm fine like I am, and I don't really give a fuck about hearing."_

You pause. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think about romance novels and stories where the Deaf character wants to hear their partner's voice. Your brows furrow. You always knew this wasn't the same for everyone, and you knew most people probably didn't think like that. Then again, if Dave had the implants, it would be easier for you to communicate with him. At least, you could communicate without as much effort.

"'Ey, Karkat!" He calls aloud, grabbing your attention. _"You're okay with that?"_ A nervous laugh punctuates this statement. _"I'm not changing my mind, anyhow, but you seem kind of upset about it."_

 _"I just thought it would be easier to talk with each other,"_ you respond, honestly.

Dave's frown only grows. It's a slight change, but you notice it. _"Easier for you,"_ he counters, _"Not for me. It's not that easy, and it doesn't help that I didn't hear anything until I was ten."_

"Ah." By now, you're sure that your mouth is hanging open like a Venus flytrap. You're embarrassed enough to even welcome a random insect flying into your mouth, then lodging itself in your windpipe so that you choke. Then again, if this happened, you wouldn't get to admire Dave's face anymore. So, you nix this plan. Instead, as a mature adult, you apologize. By now, the sign comes as second nature. You've done it enough. A circular motion of your fist, which is pressed palm-in to your chest.

Dave shrugs. Though the frown fades, a smile doesn't replace it. Instead, it's an impassive line. _"Understanding people is hard. I probably make it look easy, but I've always had a hard time figuring out speech. I guess that's what happens when you're suddenly introduced to the fact that there's sound in the world when you're ten years old."_

You can't think of much to say to this. Again, you apologize.

Again, he shrugs. _"It's fine. Let's follow everyone to Waffle House. We're probably already late."_ He motions for you to join.

You, knowing that you've made a mistake of some caliber, don't protest. You simply trot to keep up with him.

When you finally return to the apartment, Dave is in a much better mood. He reassures you that you've done nothing wrong—you couldn't have known about it. You feel as if this is a poor excuse for you to have brought up something so personal, but you're cornered on this particular matter. You simply nod, accept his reassurance, and bury your guilt in the ever-growing collection of negative emotions, which fester and linger like unwashed pots and pans in a continually overflowing sink.

You open your phone, squinting against the sudden intrusion of bright light in your otherwise dark room, and scroll through the unending flow of messages from Kankri.

"You should be ashamed of your actions," the latest reads, "You have abandoned the last person on this planet who cares for you. I will not stand for this insult against not only myself, but my dear fiancé. We welcomed you into our home with open arms, and you, the ungrateful maggot I've always known you to be, have thrown this generosity in our faces. Well, if you wish to live with that mutated r—d, go ahead! I certainly won't stop you! But, when you finally realize that such a waste of space can't provide for you as I could, know that I will not be letting you back into my house."

There's another new message. This one is from Cronus, and you don't bother reading it. You know that his is far more vulgar than Kankri's. Beyond that, you don't feel like reading an endless barrage of threats tonight.

You delete both messages, shove the phone under your pillow, and roll over. You squeeze your eyes shut, and will yourself to fall asleep. Somehow, you know that you won't be getting a good night's rest.


	23. The Sixth Station

_"Looks like I have a college email,"_ you comment to Dave, whose attentions are invested in an episode of _How It's Made_. (From what you can see, the "it", this time, is peanut butter.)

Nonetheless, the minute he notices your hands moving, he pulls his eyes away from the screen. Like the goddamned awesome friend he is, he ignores the peanut buttering to watch you. A nod shows that he's listening. And, together, the two of you stare eagerly at your computer screen.

You move the mouse over the email, then pause.

When you look to Dave, he has the stupidest, most encouraging smile on his face.

Emboldened by this, you click.

 **Congratulations, Karkat Vantas!**

 **You have been accepted to Skaia University! We look forward to the successes to come, and invite you to attend our campus tours. Go online to find out more!**

 **Welcome to a wonderful community of Skaian Sloths.**

You stare at the email, which ends with a photo of some doofus dressed in a sloth mascot costume, in complete shock. To be honest, you'd applied to Skaia as a stretch school. You never thought you'd actually make it, and you sure as hell didn't think you'd get a response before late summer. Yet, here it is. In your email. Right now.

A slap on the back interrupts your inner monologue. _"Congratulations!"_ Dave, in his usual fashion, has that half-smile spread across his face. If you could think of one thing—just one—that he looked like, you'd immediately say a proud father. Or, since you're dating him, a better description would be a proud friend-who-has-turned-into-the-cool-bro-you've-never-had.

* * *

The apartment is cozy as hell.

You've only been here for three days, but you've already established the place as your new home. You've marked out your territory, and Dave's marked out his. But, already, things are shifting. You'll find his shitty Polaroids wedged under some of your books, or one of his dorky anime keychains hanging from a hook meant for your jacket. You don't complain. Neither does he. From what you can tell, you're both perfectly content existing as is.

 _"I used to go to Skaia U,"_ Dave supplies, sitting down at the dining room table with two bowls of straight-from-the-box macaroni and cheese. _"It was pretty cool, but I can't really say much. I dropped out."_

Judging from the steam rising from your bowl, the meal is too hot to eat. So, you engage in conversation. _"Why? As much as I hate to say it, you're a smart guy."_

 _"It wasn't my thing."_ Dave shrugs. He's already begun to dig into his pile of golden-yellow, cheesy lunch. When he signs, he keeps his fork in his hand. From time to time, you swear you see some of the cheese slip off the fork's prongs, only to hurtle off to some unknown place in the apartment. _"I'm happy for you, though. And this place is close enough for you to walk there."_

 _"It is!"_ You pause. Until now, you hadn't realized this. Clearly, John's isn't the only one conspiring to get you and Dave together; as it seems, the universe is, too. _"So, if you dropped out, what are you going to do?"_

 _"I want to be a tattoo artist."_ Dave grins. You should have figured this out by now, you suppose. You should have seen the massive, unmissable neon signs.

 _"You're good at it."_

There's a subtle shift in Dave's smile. Now, it's cockier. "I know I am," it seems to say. And, when he signs a response, this confidence shines through, brighter than ever. (Or, perhaps, it's always been this bright. Maybe you just haven't noticed until now.) _"Kurloz sold Inkbound. It's under a new guy, now. Some hipster troll named Sollux."_

You pause. You're split between laughing and smashing your face into a wall. _"I know him. I was best friends with him on Alternia."_ Without really meaning to, you think aloud, "What the _actual fuck_ is he doing here!?"

Dave, ignoring your outburst, shrugs. _"The universe is tiny. We're all ants on rocks in space."_

 _"Thank you, Strider."_ You roll your eyes.

Between the two of you, a comfortable silence descends.

Before now, you wouldn't have liked this. You would have bitched and whined and done everything you could to keep a conversation going. (At least, until it hit the point that even _you_ had to admit it was dead.) Now, —and, perhaps, because it's with him—you find it reassuring. If he's content doing nothing more than being in the same space, then you are, too.

* * *

Later, as you lay in bed and stare at the ugly popcorn ceiling of your room, you hear a knock on your door. After stumbling out of your bed, you open it.

And, outlined against the dim glow of the hallway nightlight, you see Dave. A nervous smile tugs at the edges of his mouth, and, when he signs, he does so with an unusual amount of hesitancy. He pauses, backtracks, and generally bumbles what would otherwise be something he'd say in a matter of seconds. Eventually, it all boils down to a singular question. It's prefaced with a statement. He holds his fists up, as if he's about to fight, but keeps them close to his body. Tiny, shivering back-and-forth movements combine with his facial expression to mean, _"It's really cold."_ From here, he continues, _"Weird question, but can I sleep with you?"_

For many reasons, this question confuses you.

And, when he doesn't get an immediate response, his cheeks turn a vibrant pink. _"I don't mean having sex. I just mean... I'm freezing my balls off out here, and trolls have body heat, too, so I figured it would be mutual. I mean. You're cold, too, right? I'm not the only one who's cold, right?"_ He repeats himself, stumbles, and lets his hands hang in the air longer than they should in places.

Feeling at least partially responsible for this (after all, you didn't answer quickly enough), you breathe a heavy sigh. You step aside, gesture towards your bed, and answer, _"Sure. Why the fuck not? Go for it."_

He rebounds swiftly. _"I call the wall,"_ he signs, rushing towards the bed. Like an eager child, he seemingly leaps in, drawing your plain grey sheets around him like a cocoon.

With much less pep in your step, you follow. When you climb in, you have to extract your boyfriend from his bedsheet wrappings. _"I need covers, too, asshole,"_ you sign, your brows furrowed.

He simply shrugs. Nonetheless, he lets go.

Eventually, you both reach a point at which you're comfortable.

You make no effort to cuddle, though you're tempted. To you, it's awkward.

To him, it's obviously not. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulls you gently towards him, and lets for the loudest, most excessive yawn you could ever imagine. Before you can so much as think about criticizing him for this, he's asleep. His forehead is pressed to your back, and his hair brushes against your shoulder blades.

Clearly, Dave Strider isn't shy.


	24. Sootballs

Dave Strider is, to your past self's assured confusion, an absolutely stellar boyfriend. He puts up with your requests to watch romantic comedies, though he laughs through the entire thing. Every time. And he'll mock them relentlessly.

When he has time, before he goes to work, he'll leave you breakfast. Sometimes, it's a note. "Have a nice day." Or, "I hope your job hunt goes well. Get a fuckin headshot, dude." They're often stupid, but you love them.

When he can, he'll text you. He sends you updates on his day, and often asks you about yours. Usually, your replies are less interesting.

However, today, the day which marks your two-month anniversary, you haven't heard from him. You don't receive the usual lunch break message at 1:00, and you don't get the usual "heading home" message at 5:00.

Instead, at around 9:00 PM, the door unlocks. Dave, looking a whole lot like he got into a fight with a pissed off bear, stumbles in. His lip is busted, his shirt torn, and his eye blackened. His grocery apron is ripped, and his clothing covered with patches of two sorts of dried blood. The first is rusty red; the second, a distinct purple, is what bothers you.

 _"Are you okay?"_ This is, you realize, a stupid question. He is clearly not okay. But, you ask to be sure.

And, naturally, he responds with a roll of his eyes and a disgruntled huff. In an odd peculiarity—something you've seen Dave do a few times—he signs backwards. He flips the motion, though does it in the same order. An "O" handshape shifts to a "K", but he pulls the movement in rather than pushing it out. You've come to learn this is one of his ways of showing that he's being sarcastic.

 _"Don't be a smartass right now, Strider,"_ you visually assess him. Aside from the obvious cuts and scrapes and bruises, he seems unharmed. Nothing appears broken. _"What happened?"_

 _"Your stupid brother-in-law,"_ Dave's brows furrow. He pushes forward, stepping into your personal space. _"I thought you said everything was fine."_

 _"I thought it was,"_ you lie. You note that, in your opinion, you lie better through sign language than you do aloud. _"When I left, everything was cool."_ Here, you stop. You don't want to lie too much; trust is the basis of a relationship, and you're already taking a jackhammer to the foundation. And, like that metaphorical jackhammer, you find that your heart is pounding wildly in your chest. It's as if it wants to get out—as if it's clawing its way out of your chest.

Dave, however, doesn't notice this. He only steps back, calming some of your nerves (unbeknownst to him, of course). _"Well, he said I stole you, so something must have gone wrong."_ A small frown punctuates this statement. _"It sounds like he just likes to pick fights. He didn't have anything to take from me this time."_

You frown.

You don't have to do anything else. Dave knows what you're about to ask, and he answers before you can even think to begin. _"I don't have my implant, and I don't get any benefit from hearing aids."_ He shrugs, drops onto the suede living room sofa, and lets forth an enigmatic sigh. _"I would have gotten away easily, but he came in from the side."_

 _"What does that have to do with anything?"_ You frown. As you sign this, you lean your upper body forward a bit. You part your lips, but the resultant expression isn't so much a gaping, open maw as it is a look of universal confusion.

In response, Dave frowns. He suddenly sits upright. "Shit!" After this verbal exclamation, he offers you a sheepish smile. _"Fuck. I never told you?"_ He rubs his hand against the back of his neck, sticking his elbow out far to the side, _"I'm a double package. I'm Deaf and sort of blind. I've got the best tunnel vision, though, so that's a rad bonus. I don't need those horse blinder things to concentrate on shit."_

You raise your hands to respond.

Again, Dave interrupts. _"It's a genetic thing. T-L-D-R,"_ like the absolute dweeb he is, he spells out the internet acronym, _"I've got great central vision, but no peripheral vision."_

Slowly, you nod. You wonder if you should have figured this out from his tendency to keep the most pointedly intense death glare on whoever he was speaking to. Maybe the way he turned his head to look at someone, rather than watching them from the corner of his eye, should have alerted you. Maybe... Maybe...

Three loud snaps draw you back into the real world.

 _"Welcome back!"_ A smirk flashes across Dave's face. Then, without hesitation, he continues, _"It's progressive, so it's getting worse. Right now, it's holding pretty steady. I didn't flip your shit with any of this, did I?"_

You shake your head. _"No. I was just surprised."_

Dave grins. He winks, nudges you in the gut with his elbow, and comments, _"Well, now you're not. Sorry. Thought I told you earlier."_ Once this has been said, he pauses. The grin fades, turning, instead, to a pensive frown. _"What were we talking about?"_

 _"You said you beat up Cronus."_

 _"Yeah!"_ Dave nods eagerly. He flashes you a wild grin. _"He's got two black eyes, a busted lip, and a missing fang. Go suck on that, you elitist bastard!"_ Clearly proud of his exploits, Dave lets forth a booming laugh.

And, if you're being completely honest with yourself, you have to say that you're amused, too. It is, after all, what Cronus has had coming to him for the past umpteen years. Nonetheless, you know that this will only spur him on. _"Don't do that again."_

 _"You smiled, though."_ Dave grins. Rising from the sofa, he trots off to the fridge. He pops open a can of soda, chugs, and shrugs. _"I see where you're coming from, though. We should probably get a restraining order on him."_

 _"And Kankri,"_ you add.

Dave nods in solemn agreement. Then, in typical Strider fashion, he signs, _"That's enough of that."_ Returning to the sofa, he sits beside you. He rummages through the side table drawer. After he finds his glasses, he slips them on.

You see the perfect opportunity. _"You look like a nerd."_

 _"But I'm a sexy nerd."_ Dave licks his lips in the most outrageously over-the-top sexual way possible. He waggles his brows, and leans in close to you. _"I'm your sexy nerd."_ He sprawls out on your lap, covering his forehead with the back of his hand, like a dramatic housewife in some old-fashioned movie. _"Do me like your college application, you naughty troll."_

While you can't help but laugh at the commentary, you still shove him off of you. He lands on the floor, and rolls over in time to see your response. _"This is disgusting!"_

After he gets back up and onto the sofa, he, too, laughs. This time, it's more of a snicker. It's a rare, quiet, vulnerable sound—something he does rarely and, if you're judging it correctly, only in the presence of people he trusts. _"You know you liked it."_

 _"Next topic! Next topic!"_ You repeat your signing twice for emphasis.

He, with one final anti-seductive eyebrow wag, obliges. He rises from the sofa, and opens the cabinet beneath the television. Inside, there's a beaten-up XBOX 360 and some games. He plucks an outrageously outdated copy of _WWE Smackdown vs Raw_ from the fray, pops the disk into the tray, and grabs two controllers. He tosses one to you, and sits down beside you with the other.

After an intro screen—which displays various scenes of wrestling-standard live-action violence, superimposed, as one does, onto the WWE logo—he begins playing.

For a while, you simply watch.

The graphics match the date on the cover. Clearly, this game is from 2006. If it was any later, you'd be amazed. Nonetheless, they're manageable.

Unlike you, who has never really played a video game before, Dave seems to play from memory. His moves are precise, calculated, and seemingly rote. Some punches, a few kicks, and a metal chair to the face. "Busted _wide_ open!" announces the digitized voice of Vince McMahon, stretching out the syllable to ridiculous lengths.

At some point in this endless parade of stupidity, your attentions are forcibly grabbed—and, in accordance with the theme of the game, likely body-slammed into the ring of reality—when Dave flings his controller onto the cushion beside him. He leaps to his feet and, with the passion of a misguided but musically inclined French revolutionary, he signs, _"It's the People's Elbow!"_ This is done with such exuberance that even you, someone who has never been particularly fond of such a sport, find yourself enthralled.

With an eagerness rivalled only by a child on Christmas morning, Dave stares at the screen.

A digital version of Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson—circa 2006—slides across the ring. He jumps over the head of the opponent, laid flat on his back, twice. Then, with his elbow readied for attack, he drops, nailing the unfortunate virtual opponent in the lungs.

As the final blow occurs, Dave exclaims aloud, "Boom!" From there, he returns to sign, _"The crowd goes fucking wild!"_

 _"I'm going to go fucking wild if you break something,"_ you counter. A swift tug on the back of his shirt brings him back onto the sofa. _"Don't get too worked up, you might boil off your remaining common sense."_

 _"Too bad for you! I didn't have any to begin with,"_ Dave snickers. He picks up his controller, speeds through the ending credits of career mode, and ends by glancing expectantly towards you.

 _"You don't expect me to play that with you."_

Shoving the spare controller into your stomach, until you're forced to take it or risk him prodding your abdominal organs to death, he nods. _"Of course I do! Come on, Karkat,"_ here, he uses your name sign. By now, it's a common thing, but it still makes you feel the same clichéd warm fuzzies that it did when you'd first received it. _"Please?"_ He pouts. He sticks his elbow out to the side as he signs. Altogether, it gives it a whiny, incessant sort of tone.

And, at the very least, agreeing will wipe away the shitty look on his face. _"Whatever. Let's do it and get it over with."_ You fiddle with the controls, prodding hesitantly at the joysticks for a few moments as Dave adds you in.

After a few minutes, during which you weren't paying much attention to the screen, the character selection interface pops up.

Dave, despite his enthusiasm for Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson only moments ago, chooses some luchador-looking man dubbed Rey Mysterio.

You, after scrolling quickly through all the available options, settle on some hippy-looking fellow by the name of Dude Love.

Naturally, your boyfriend comments on this. _"Fine choice, for a gay troll,"_ he jests, laughing at his own joke.

 _"Fuck off,"_ you respond with a similar air of insincerity. Then, you voice your concern, _"How the fuck do I play this?"_

 _"Just button-smash,"_ Dave reassures you.

This does nothing to help.

The minute the countdown from three is over, Dave's character rushes at yours. The tiny, red-masked man leaps up, straddles your hulk of a man like a folding chair, and performs an acrobatic move which slams your digital man face-first into the springy mat. Before you can object, your character is helped up, only to be flung out of the ring, onto the concrete below.

 _"Not fair!"_ you sign with one hand, though you know having the other on the controls won't do much, since you don't know how they work.

For a solid seven minutes, Dave's character acrobatically pummels yours into a bloody, tattered, 1960's pulp. You manage to throw a few punches and hook a few grabs, but you're definitely not winning any tournaments. Hell, you didn't even win this game.

That's not to say that you didn't have fun.

In fact, despite knowing that you're going to get your ass handed to you repeatedly, you ask for another. _"Fuck you!"_ You huff. _"That wasn't fair. I demand a redo."_

 _"Fair enough."_ Dave, with that strangely cute but wholly deviant smirk, happily acquiesces.

And, over the span of several hours, the two of you grow closer by virtually beating the living shit out of one another.


	25. The Demon God

You've never liked being alone.

Loneliness, in your experience, is the first step to introspection. Introspection is the second step in the spiral downwards, but the first step to thought you'd rather not linger upon. The third step in the entire process, but the second step for your thoughts, is the sinking feeling. A sense that you're drowning, suffocating beneath wave after wave of emotion and deceit. There's the very tangible weight of something tethering you to the bottom of the seemingly endless abyss, and it latches onto your ankle in the form of uncertainty. Who are you, exactly? Where have you come from? Where are you going?

What are you doing?

What do you want from life?

What do you want from others?

What do you want from yourself?

It's not a real sound, but you can certainly hear the overwhelming rush of the first wave. Identity. You've never been very big on who you are, and what you're here for. Despite the fact that your brother is essentially a troll fascist, your grandfather was a pioneering social reformist of Skaia. He died destroying the final remnants of the blood-based caste system. Your brother, though misguided as hell, has a purpose. You don't.

Why do you care?

What does it matter to you?

What does it matter to, well, _anyone_?

You're like a grain of sand, but you're not one of those fine, shimmering ones. You're a dull, weathered little remnant of a rock. And, it's not the nicest rock, either. You'd imagine that, if you were a grain of sand, you'd be one of those gross brownish-grey ones. You'd be buried beneath pristine golden yellow. People around you shine like stars, but you are nothing more than the shrieking remnants of something that could have been great.

But, you can't blame anyone. You're responsible for your own life, and you've gone nowhere with it. Sure, you're going to college. Great for you! Fantastic! Marvelous! But, what good will it do? You'll be nowhere near knowing what to do with the rest of your life. Kankri's graduated college, and he knew what he was doing. He got a job as a newspaper columnist, then worked his way up, until he overran the former _Skaian Times of Alternia_ and turned it into _The Daily Truths_ , his pet propaganda project. Sure, he's spawned countless hateful idiots, but he has people who admire him.

What do you have?

No, that's a shit question. You've got nothing.

A loud, angry grunt escapes you as you kick the door to your room. It shudders from the force of the impact. The hinges squeak. You curl your fingers into fists and fight back the urge to punch the door. You're not the strongest person, but the wooden portal has already shown that it's not a good punching bag.

Where are you?

Do you exist?

You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, applying pressure until spots appear against the darkness of the inside of your eyelids. "Yes," you say aloud, fighting against the rising sense of nothingness. The best way to describe it is that you are a balloon. Normally, you're tethered; right now, that lifeline is fraying. As it goes, you lift. Inch by inch.

"My name," you announce to no one in particular, "Is Karkat Vantas. I'm eighteen." You drop onto your bed. After grabbing the blanket Dave gave you, you draw it about yourself. You bundle yourself in its soft fabric, and inhale the scent of smoke and musty vinyl record sleeves. "I am in Newhaven, Skaia. I live with Dave Strider."

Slowly, you feel yourself returning to reality.

And, as you're about to descend the last few metaphorical feet, the lights—pure, but dim, white fairy lights strung throughout the house and wired to the doorbell—flicker. Once. Twice.

You rise from your bed and, when you reach the door, you peer through the peephole.

Outside, you see the receding figure of the old woman who lives down the hall. (You call her Miss Dawson. Dave calls her "Old Lady D," and she seems to think that's hilarious. She's a great neighbor, and she's often dropped off extra groceries she might happen to pick up.) When you open the door, you find a note and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

You peel the note from the saranwrap. "Dave told me to check on you. He said you didn't answer your early morning text. I hope everything is alright. If it's not, I hope you enjoy these cookies I baked for my grandchildren. There were some left over."

When you open the door again, hoping to be able to thank her for the thoughtful delivery, you find that the hallway is empty. With no other option, you simply write your response on the back of the printer paper she used. You slide the page under the door, then return to the apartment.

There are exactly ten cookies. Each is about five inches in diameter. You set aside five for Dave, and proceed to consume the other five in one sitting. Against all conventional logic, these _do_ make you feel better. The remind you of your mother's cooking, and that reminds you of your family life before Kankri turned into a spiteful bastard. In fact, you have to say that your childhood—up until high school—was pretty standard. Your parents were wonderful, and you had plenty of support. Then again, having one of your sons turn into a racist pig would also prompt you to do everything to forget that you ever reproduced; you understand where their sudden rejection came from, at least.

Not that it makes you feel any less betrayed by it. But, if it hadn't happened this way, you never would have met Dave. You wouldn't have worked at Mage's Emporium, and you wouldn't have had the experiences you've had. You'd be a different person, and you're not sure how you'd feel about that.

You sigh. By now, you want nothing more than a distraction. You turn on the television, set it to HGTV, and proceed to watch a show about a man who builds treehouses for a living.


	26. Paper Airplane

**\- turntechGodhead [** **[TG]** **began pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

 **TG: alright dude it's time we have ourselves a proper feelings jam  
TG: you and i  
TG: me and you  
TG: but not me before you that's some dubious shit  
TG: feelings jam right now right here it's a legit throwdown in this virtual chatroom get your fisticuffs ready**

 **CG: I'M PRETTY FUCKING SURE THAT'S NOW HOW YOU USE THE WORD "FISTICUFFS." GET YOUR SPONGE-FILLED BRAIN OUT OF YOUR ASS. I AM *NOT* HAVING ANY SORT OF SO-FUCKING-CALLED "FEELINGS JAM" WITH YOU, JACKASS.**

 **TG: you're a lot nicer when you're signing because when you're typing you're one mean motherfucker**

 **CG: I'LL TAKE THAT AS A COMPLIMENT RIGHT NOW. WHAT DO YOU WANT, AND AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING?**

 **TG: well see that's where i was going to start  
TG: sollux is taking me back onto the staff of inkbound so i'm moving back there  
TG: your old job is open now and john said he can hold it until you come back he already applied for you**

 **CG: MAYBE I DIDN'T FUCKING WANT TO GO BACK TO THE DUST BOWL. BUT, WHATEVER. I GUESS IT'S FINE.  
CG: THAT'S IT, RIGHT? THIS IDIOTIC "FEELINGS JAM" IS OVER?**

 **TG: ha that's a funny one sweetums nah it's only hust beginning  
TG: you will never leave this feelings jam**

 **CG: I COULD JUST DISCONNECT, YOU ABSOLUTE WET BLANKET. FUCKING SHIT, I'M SURPRISED I HAVEN'T.**

 **TG: yeah see that's it you've been so fuckin irritable lately  
TG: and we are dating so i wanna know what's going down up there in your troll brain  
TG: you call them think pans right?**

 **CG: TRADITIONALLY, YES. I DON'T.  
CG: NOTHING IS FUCKING HAPPENING. AND, IF IT WAS, IT'S NONE OF YOUR GODDAMNED BUSINESS. KINDLY GET OFF OF MY ASS.**

 **TG: sorry man i was already off it i'm not into ass-grabbing**

 **YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, YOU DENSE FUCKER. NOW, CAN I *PLEASE* JUST GO BACK TO ASSEMBLING THIS POINTLESS PUZZLE?**

 **TG: the one with the kittens in a basket?  
TG: shit man i love that one yeah keep going**

 **\- turntechGodhead [** **[TG]** **ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist** **[CG]** **-**

By the time he gets home, you've finished every shitty puzzle he has. They're all banal, easy things—according to the boxes, none of them are for anyone over the age of eight. You're honestly not sure why you even bothered doing them. You suppose they were decent distractions, and you _did_ waste a solid hour searching for a piece to a puzzle that Dave later admitted he ate as a child. He offered to get his stomach searched for it, but you're not going _that_ far for a bunch of poorly painted fish.

 _"You really don't like being alone, do you?"_ Dave frowns. By now, the spot where his implant usually was is beginning to fade. While the base is still there, hair has begun to grow over it. Soon, you probably won't be able to tell anything's there unless you look closely.

 _"No!"_ You respond with a groan.

Dave shrugs. He examines your handiwork. Though most of the puzzles go with little more than a huff of approval, he comments on the one with the kittens. _"I used to have one that went with this. It had puppies in it. Bro lit it on fire."_

 _"Your Bro was a dickhole,"_ you let the words spout from your fingers like vinegar. There's a strangely hateful part of you which only rears its ugly head when Bro is involved. You can't help it; the guy's a bastard. You can't just idly twiddle your thumbs as Dave tells you all the shit he did to him. You watched Cronus beat the shit out of Dave, and you're not letting that happen again.

Dave, of course, knows this. Sometimes, you think he brings up Bro just to keep you on your toes. In fact, this time, he responds to your comment with a small smile. _"It's not that big of a deal. You could insult him for plenty of other things he's done. That one wasn't that bad."_

 _"All of it was pretty bad,"_ you counter.

Dave shrugs. _"Kankri and Cronus were pretty bad."_

Your mouth goes dry. You meet his gaze, and he averts his. _"That's different."_

 _"Is it?"_ There's something that could possibly be a smirk on his face, but there's nothing proud or happy about it. There's an expression, and that expression is underlain with a sense that he knows what he's doing. _"You can talk to me."_

 _"You wouldn't get it,"_ you respond. Though, as soon as you're finished saying this, you know you're wrong. You've heard the stories about Bro. In fact, you've often found yourself wondering if you have the right to be so upset with Kankri and Cronus; Dave's brother was obviously worse. Maybe you're just bad at handling criticism, just like Kankri always says.

He shrugs. Suddenly, you're keenly aware of his gaze. It scrutinizes you, examines your every flaw, and studies you with an unprecedented intensity. You want to shrink away, yet you want to meet him halfway. If Dave can be as confident and cocky as he is—even if it's only a ruse—why can't you be, too?

 _"Tell me,"_ he urges you again. "Karkat?" he says your name aloud, then tilts his head to the side.

At this point, you figure you have little to lose. But, you don't want to tell him everything. Not yet. You'll tell him bits and pieces. And, you'll start out with the easiest one to say. _"They didn't say I could come here. They locked me in the room. I got out through the outdoor fire escape scaffolding."_

Dave nods. _"I figured. I don't think Cronus would beat me up if you'd agreed."_ He shrugs.

That went better than you thought it would.

Perhaps you could tell him a little more. _"They took the phone and computer. I waited until they were both gone took back my stuff, and came here. They're both pissed."_

 _"I would guess they would be."_ Dave, perhaps sensing that you've summarized the most basic aspect of the past few weeks, seems to step away from the topic. _"I need to go to the store later. We don't have that much left in the pantry. What do you want for dinner?"_

You shrug. To be honest, you're fine with leaving things where they are now when it comes to the conversation. You'll have to spill all the beans eventually, but you've tipped enough out for now. _"What do you want?"_

 _"We could order Chinese takeout."_ Dave, too, seems stumped as to what's on tonight's menu.

So, despite the fact that you're not that keen on Japanese food—you, personally, prefer Japanese food—you agree. You order the first thing on the menu, which ends up being a bland-as-hell wonton soup. Naturally, this meal comes with two fortune cookies.

Both you and Dave pick one.

"Tomorrow will be a brighter day!" reads your fortune.

When you ask for his, he offers you a less chipper slip of paper. "The sun is setting on an age."

Both of you exchange glances.

Considering that he's on the horoscope boat with John, you're not too surprised when he hesitantly discards the fortune. _"It's just a piece of paper out of a cookie, right?"_ he laughs nervously.

You reassure him, handing over your fortune as you reply, _"Mine's better. You can take that one. I'll take the fucking awful sunset."_

 _"I'm not responsible if you end up dead in the morning,"_ Dave jokes.

You roll your eyes. _"Fuck off, Strider. You just said it was a piece of paper in a cookie."_


	27. A Journey (Kingdom of Dreams)

On your first day back at Mage's Emporium, John makes you tell him everything. Absolute everything.

What happened? Where were you? Et cetera, et cetera.

You divulge some of your secrets, but certainly not as much as you've told Dave. You keep what's happened recently to yourself, and only tell him that you and Kankri had an argument.

Otherwise, everything seems to be back to normal. Once again, you're working with John in a massive room of dusty novelty items. Your day is filled with nothing but the mundane and, considering the circumstances, you're fine with this. In fact, you're overjoyed. You would love for life to remain perfectly neutral for a while. Nothing exceedingly exciting—of any sort of alignment, be it good or bad—and nothing exceedingly new occurs. This is how you want thing to stay for now.

All you want is to have time to get to know Dave, to hang out with him, and to further your relationship. If you're being completely honest, the hopeless romantic in you wants to marry him. Then again, it's a bit early.

For a good portion of your day, you go through familiar, rote motions. Polish the displays. Reorganize boxes. Tend to the few customers. Eventually, this is broken.

"Kankri came in earlier today," John comments.

You stare at him, your eyes wide with disbelief. "What the fuck did he want?"

It occurs to you that you didn't tell John exactly what the argument you had with your brother was about. This accounts for the look of shock on his face when you snap at him. "He told me to tell you that Cronus is on the prowl. Whatever that means." John shrugs. Blissfully unaware of the weight of his message, he begins to whistle some banal tune. He counts the change in the register, slipping the coins into cardboard sleeves as he does so.

You, meanwhile, feel as if you've been hit in the face with something pulled from beneath the matt at a WWE match. Your blood runs cold, your heart pounds against your chest, and your breath catches in your throat. "Dave's back at Inkbound, right?"

"Yeah," John laughs. He shoots you a bemused but quizzical look. "He's been back for two months."

"Today's his solo day, right?"

Again, John laughs. "Do you two communicate, or do you just have sex? I'm kidding. But, yeah, every day's a solo day. Sollux hasn't hired anyone else yet. Dave's the only one—" You're not sure if he stopped talking, or if you just blocked him out. Either way, you dash out the entrance and to the next door building, where you find a completely unharmed Dave behind the register.

 _"What's got your ass in a knot?"_ He, too, laughs. You want to strangle him. You want to strangle him _and_ John; neither of them know how serious this is, and they're both treating it like a joke.

Still, you swallow your feelings long enough to respond. _"You haven't seen Cronus, have you?"_

 _"That bastard!?"_ Dave rolls his eyes. _"Nope. Not at all. Should I be watching for him?"_

You nod. _"Just keep an eye out. I don't think he'll attack during the day, and there are a lot of people out today. But... Stay safe."_

 _"Will do."_ To further demonstrate his intent to comply with your command, he shoots you two thumbs up.

Though you don't want to, you have to leave. You have to return to Mage's Emporium.

For the last few hours of the day, you keep yourself on adrenaline-driven high alert.

In the end, nothing happens.

Dave drives you home. This is something that's neither new nor surprising. You don't drive. You've been meaning to get a license, but have continually put it off. You make up various reasons in your head, but you know that you'll get one. Someday.

Today, however, is not the day.

Today is the day that you find a certain six-letter "F" slur scrawled in crude red paint on the front door of your apartment. It's a quick fix. For some reason, the landlord has a few extra doors. Yours is removed, and a clean, new one put in its place.

But, it still disturbs you.

You're almost certain of who the culprit is, but you can't say anything. Aside from that, who would trust you? Despite his obvious faults, Kankri is in good standing with everyone in power within Newhaven. He knows judges, prosecutors, and other government officials. Your word wouldn't hold a candle to the allegations he'd fire back.

The landlord promises that an investigation will be launched, but you're not holding your breath. You doubt the same bastard, who charged you for a new door, will be so willing to provide the free service of additional security.

You, naturally, are uneasy about all of this.

Dave, however, seems impassive. He makes no comments, but, once both of you are inside the apartment, he breaks that silence. _"Well, that was interesting."_

 _"Interesting!?"_ you fire back. You raise your brows, indicating that this is a question you don't intend for him to answer. _"That's all you can say!? That it's 'interesting'?"_

He shrugs. _"We'll worry about it later"_ He brushes your concern aside, but he seems to acknowledge it. His body language is tense, and he seems on edge. Then again, you could be reading him incorrectly; that's always a possibility. _"I'm tired, and I'd really love to just not think about it right now."_

 _"When do you want to think about it?"_ you respond.

Another shrug. _"Fuck if I know. Not right now. The door's fixed, and I got a nice load of cash from a new client."_ A long, heavy sigh escapes him as he drops onto the sofa. He flips the television on, and scrolls through the channels.

Not wanting to be the one to push him more than is absolutely necessary, you join. You sit down beside him, though you eventually shift positions. After a while, you find yourself leaning against him. Your feet are propped up on the armrest of the sofa, and your back is against his side.

Somehow, you get a feeling that your newfound idyllic lifestyle isn't going to last.

But, for now, you choose to enjoy it.


	28. Prototype 8

If there's one person you didn't expect to show up at your workplace unannounced, it's Roxy goddamned Lalonde. And, if there's one thing you also wouldn't expect, it would be the fact that she's wearing the Inkbound uniform. (Which consists of little more than a standard black apron, any choice of clothing, and a nametag.)

"Roxy!" John, naturally, greets her enthusiastically. He offers her one of his usual grins and jumps the display case to greet her. As if you were so unaware that you didn't notice any of this, he adds, "Dude, Roxy's here!"

"I never noticed," you huff. "I'd like to know _why_."

"You can't just ask people _why_ they exist, Karkat!" John counters. In the back of your mind, you know this is a pop culture reference. Right now, you're too sleep deprived and confused to know what _exactly_ it's from.

Thus, you ignore his commentary.

Roxy seems to, too. "I got hired next door. I'm working as Dave's interpreter. Sollux says trying to figure out what Dave's saying is a pain the ass." She punctuates this comment with a shrug. "I think he's blind in one eye, so I'm guessing Dave tends to be outside his field of vision a lot. Not sure."

"He could have just fucking told Dave," you counter. Then, you recall some of your interactions with Sollux. You only knew him during your shared childhood, but this new fact seems to fall in line with what you already know about him. "Never mind. He wouldn't have done that. Proud fuckhole."

A snicker of laughter tells you that Roxy is amused by this development.

John, meanwhile, takes the conversational pause as a means to worm his way back into relevancy. "So, you and Dave are working together?"

"No," you quip, "They're working for two different companies in the same fucking building, you absolute dingdong."

"I am offended," John, as you'd expect, throws your commentary right back at you. It's something you've always enjoyed about him; then again, you'd never tell him this.

"I could have called you much fucking worse than a dingdong. Consider this an act of friendship, child." You roll your eyes, though you show a small smile to hammer home your insincerity. "Anyhow, didn't Inkbound open two hours ago?"

Roxy's eyes widen. She checks her watch, frowns, and detaches it from her wrist. After flipping it around, she lets forth a frankly shocking yelp. "Shit! It did! I'll see both of you around!"

As she retreats, you can imagine the clouds of dust she'd leave in her wake as a cartoon character. You turn your attentions to John. "Is she always like that?"

"Only in the mornings," he shrugs.

Later, around 1:00, John agrees to let you leave for your daily lunch break. (Not that he wouldn't. He's what you suppose you could call a "bro," seeing as he always covers your ass when you want to do things. This is also why you've been trying to give him a small portion of your paycheck every month, only for him to tell you that "friends do friend stuff and don't expect money back." Goddamned shitty good person.)

You head down the street, pick up those soggy meatball subs that Dave seems so fond of, courtesy of Joe's Submarine of Subs, and return to Inkbound.

By the time you enter, Dave's already on his lunch break. It seems Roxy is, too, because she's nowhere to be found. He, meanwhile, has his feet propped up on the front counter. A burning cigarette hangs from between his lips, and the smoke rises from its tip like a tiny vapor trail from the butt of a carcinogenic jet.

A pair of homemade headphones—something seemingly hacked together from the remains of who-knows-how-many other electronic goods—are blasting a bass-boosted version of goddamned 'Mama Mia', thus definitively proving that Dave is a massive dork. (Not that you didn't already know; you _are_ dating him.)

The minute he notices you, however, he pauses the music. He extinguishes the cigarette in the ashtray beside the register, and offers you an embarrassed grin. _"You didn't hear what I was listening to, right?"_

After setting the meal on the counter and pulling up one of the barstools in the waiting room, you shake your head. _"Your secret is safe with me, jackass."_

 _"It's got a lot of bass. Don't judge."_ He defends himself with one hand, as the other is already busy ripping open the paper around his sandwich. When it's free, he wastes no time in digging into the full foot of sopping meat and bread. After a solid five minutes of ravenous eating, he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his black sweatshirt. _"You're the best, dude."_

 _"You only talk about Joe's shitty subs every other hour,"_ you shrug. _"I don't see what's so great about them. They feel like a wet sponge."_

 _"But they taste like the food of the gods,"_ Dave counters, shoving the last bite into your hands. This results in a healthy amount of brown gravy seeping from the bread and onto you.

You, naturally, respond with repulsion. You much prefer grubnuggets, served by the troll-oriented staff at In-'N'-Out 4 Trolls. They're cheap, delicious, and filled with Alternian spices. Unlike whatever sad, wet consumable item that's in your hands right now, they also don't _leak_. _"You don't expect me to try this, do you?"_

 _"I do."_ Dave nods. He leans in close to you and, in an unexpected move, gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. In typical not-so-smooth Strider fashion, he then divers his gaze. His cheeks burn a bright pink. _"Please? Come on, it's just one bite."_ He reaches under the counter and pulls from the poorly hidden mini-fridge a bottle of Sopa-Cola. (Contrary to its name, it only contains artificial sopor flavoring; actual sopor is illegal on Earth.)

You, flustered by his kiss and still on a sleep-deprivation hangover, respond with a reluctant sigh. _"Fine. But I won't like it."_

 _"I bet you will,"_ he responds, grinning.

You, meanwhile, roll your eyes and pop the final bite into your mouth. You chew slowly, and find the flavor to be a bit blander than you'd imagined. The texture of the meat is such that it sticks to your fangs, wedging itself between them and against your gums. The soft bread, however, acts like a meat-attracting glue. Together, they create a flavor reminiscent of a ground beef stew. This is surprising; you'd expected it to taste more like spaghetti. Then again, you only now recall that spaghetti—which you have a very one-sided hate relationship with—has red sauce. The sauce on this is brown.

If you're being honest, it's good. But, you also know that telling that to Dave will only satisfy him. So, you make a poor attempt at bluffing your way out of the situation. _"That was absolutely repulsive. The meat was undercooked, the sauce watery, and the bread like hardtack."_ You turn your nose up.

He, however, sees through the act. He rolls his eyes, adjusts his glasses, and elbows you in the ribs. As you wince, he pats you on the head. _"I know you liked it, Karkat. Don't lie. It's not becoming of you."_

 _"Whatever. So what if I liked it? I'm not going to willingly buy one of those... Those THINGS,"_ you respond, emphasizing the final word with an exaggerated facial expression and more emphatic signing. However, under the casual guilt brought on by his attentive gaze, you cave. _"Fine. I wouldn't do it alone."_

 _"Well, then, I'll go with you."_ He grins, pulls the keyring off his belt, and grabs you by the wrist. He pulls you forwards, out the door, and, after locking the door, down the street.


	29. Adagio of Life and Death

Out of what you outwardly claimed to be boredom, but secretly know to be desire to be a need to be around Dave, you shadow him to work. Today might be _your_ day off, but it's not his. Besides that, Roxy called in sick, and Dave wanted an interpreter. You understand; it's hard to read lips, and it's an imprecise art.

So, now, you sit behind the front counter of Inkbound.

Your arms are folded across your chest, your eyes are half-closed, and you're wearing Roxy's apron. (It's a one-size-fits-most deal.) Nearby, Dave leans against the countertop. He clicks his pen incessantly, and, while it would have bothered you before, you've come to grow fond of his nervous habit. It reminds you of his presence. In fact, Dave has a peculiar way of clicking his pens. He always keeps a steady beat. Today, it's a leisurely ¾ beat.

Now, with the clicking as an oddly calming background noise, you stare at the pure white Christmas lights strung up around the ceiling crowns. From experience, you know that they're rigged to flash when a new customer comes in. It's a quick, simple, and subtle signal. In fact, you much prefer this system to the bells and ringing that most places seem to use. As you stare at this, they flash.

Dave frowns. He adjusts his glasses—the odd, clear-ribbed oblong ones you've grown familiar with—and offers a lopsided smile. This smile, however, quickly fades.

When you look up, you know exactly why.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you snap, trying your best to level the most pointedly aggressive glare at your brother-in-law. (This new moniker is only a guess. You assume that's what the new ring on his finger is for; you don't care either way.) "Get the hell out of here."

"Hey, now, kid. That's no way to talk to a potential customer." Cronus rolls his eyes, pauses, then punctuates this by spitting into a nearby potted plant. He flashes you a sinister grin, a gesture which highlights his fangs. (All trolls have pointed teeth, but the higher echelons of the blood caste tend to have much sharper ones.)

Dave, when you look at him, seems to agree. His demeanor is one of unbelievable calm, though you'd expect just as much. When he signs, you translate. "My apologies for Karkat. He still seems to have a grudge. Are you here for a new tattoo?"

"No, I'm here to order takeout," snaps Cronus, using his claw to pick food from between his teeth. "Yeah, you fucking idiot. I've got the design." He approaches the counter, slams a piece of paper onto the table, and smirks.

On it, there's a recognizable emblem. You know it to be the symbol of Kankri and his Signless jackasses—the astrological Cancer sign turned ninety degrees to the left. A sword runs through the two circles, apparently signifying the cleansing of the Troll species. You've told Dave about the symbol before, and he seems to understand its implications.

Nonetheless, he obliges. He nods, then gestures towards the chair. Again, you translate. "I don't have any appointments for today, so you can take a seat."

"Yeah," Cronus huffs, rolling his eyes, "Whatever. Just get this done." He sits down, rolls up his sleeve, and offers his bicep.

After what you assume to be standard sanitary procedures, Dave sits down and begins working.

Around now, it occurs to you that you've never seen Dave work. You've never been in the same room as him when he's actually tattooed someone, and it's an oddly mesmerizing process. His left hand draws the image, using small, precise movements, while his right wipes away ink with a white cloth. Like the pen-clicking, it's an oddly mesmerizing process. It's a bit like watching him draw, which you've also never truly done. (You've always felt as if doing so was intruding on his personal space and privacy.)

Cronus, meanwhile, scrutinizes the work. Though he tries to play it off casually, you can tell he's getting annoyed. He's always had a thing for tattoos, and he runs some sort of strange blog, wherein he publicly blasts the places he gets his work done at. By doing this, he uses the posts as leverage. If the parlor owner pays up, he'll take down the post; if not, he'll keep it up. You know it's his fucked-up way to get free tattoos, but both he and Kankri claim it's an effort to weed out bad tattoo places.

"So, what? When did this shithole open up again?" Cronus frowns. He visually scours his surroundings, showing notable disdain when he spots the small equality sticker on the door. "It's even worse than before. Dimly lit and ugly. I'm surprised you can even see anything in here."

Dave nods to acknowledge that he's understood your translation, but ignores the commentary. Instead, he continues to work, concentrating his obvious frustration into his art. Somehow, you feel as if this is something he's done often. It seems as if he's familiar with this process—spilling out his heart as nothing less than fine art.

"What? You're just going to ignore me?" scoffs Cronus, obviously upset by this development. "You're supposed to _talk_ to your customers, you dense fucker. What, is your brain as shitty as your hearing?"

Again, Dave nods; again, he refrains from commenting.

After a while—but, you notice, only after the tattoo's outline is done—Cronus seems to have had enough. When Dave goes to change the colors out, he moves.

You, however, anticipated this. You're on top of him before he can do any damage. He strains against you, but you've always been stronger than you look. You're able to hold him down, and you lived with him long enough to learn how to avoid his punches.

Dave, meanwhile, exits. He comes back a few minutes later with Sollux, having grabbed him from the only private office in the building. (It's disguised as an out-of-order restroom, and you chock this up to Sollux's innate introversion. You completely understand where he's coming from and, as a bit of an introvert, you know _why_ he does it. Nonetheless, the implementation is in line with Sollux's odd personality and sense of humor.)

Of course, the minute Cronus sees the manager of the store, he pounces. "Your employee attacked me," he claims, acting the part of a victimized and startled customer with an amazing amount of believability. "Look at him! He's pinned me down, and I don't fucking appreciate being treated like this." He makes a single, strong push against your grasp, and you stumble back. "I came here to get a tattoo, not to get physically assaulted."

"Well," Sollux reasons, his one good eye examining your shitty brother-in-law, "As I understand it, you're related to Karkat. Besides, he wouldn't attack you unless he had a reason." At this point, Sollux's gaze falls upon the work Dave's done on Cronus' bicep. He frowns. "And, judging by that tattoo, you do."

 _"What the hell is going on?"_ Dave signs to you from his spot in the corner.

You quickly reassure him. _"I'll update you when something important happens."_

The fingertips of Dave's flattened right palm touch his lips. He moves it out and down by the elbow, and his hand ends palm-up at waist level. _"Thanks."_

You nod.

Cronus, meanwhile, continues his tirade. He launches his usual trap. "I could report this place! I'm the owner of the Bad Tats Blog, and I have quite the following!" As if to back up his claim, he pulls out his phone and flashes his current Tumblr stats. "Over five thousand followers! Five! Thousand! I could _ruin_ you."

"Then fucking ruin me," Sollux grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. His brows furrow. "Look, asshole I don't have time for this. If you're not going to say anything good, get the fuck out of my store." Despite Sollux's fairly scrawny appearance, he manages to get Cronus' hands behind his back. He then shoves your irate brother-in-law forwards, further commenting, "If I ever see your face in here again, I will shove my foot so far up your shit chute that it will break off in your pelvis."

Presumably, he escorts Cronus further than just outside the door.

There's a period of awkward silence—perhaps two minutes—as you wait for him to return. When he doesn't, you take the opportunity to fill Dave in on what he missed. _"Cronus is probably going to shit on this place on his blog."_ You shrug.

He, too, shrugs. To your amusement, he doesn't show much faith in the influence of Cronus' blog, either. _"So, hell whine to the internet? That sounds really fucking mature. What's next? He'll stick a pacifier in his own mouth and shit himself while he does it?"_ As per usual, he laughs at his own commentary.

You do, however, feel the need to at least inform him of the specifics. _"It has a pretty decent following, and it's run places out of business before."_ You pause to consider the facts. Inkbound is still a relatively hole-in-the-wall place, and most people just pass it by. On one hand, there will definitely be newfound attention drawn to the place, but it won't necessarily be good. Then again, it could be a case of no publicity is bad publicity. It all adds up to an unsatisfying conclusion, _"Who knows what will happen?"_

 _"I don't. That's half the fun of it, I guess."_ Dave grins. _"Thanks for holding him down, but I could have taken him on."_

 _"Sure,"_ you roll your eyes, but you know that he probably could have beaten the shit out of Cronus if he'd wanted to. You definitely saved him the trouble of doing so, though. _"You okay?"_

 _"I'm fine."_ Dave reassures you. His grin fades, though, as he continues, _"We'll probably have to watch ourselves a little more, now."_

 _"I know."_ You sigh.

He does, too.

And, around now, Sollux reenters. He, too, heaves his own sigh. "That bastard was a fucking handful. Karkat, your family is fucked up."

"You don't need to remind me," you grumble. "I'm really fucking sorry about that, though. It won't happen again."

"Oh, I _know_ it won't," counters your childhood friend, "If he comes back, I'm calling the goddamned cops." After a huff of some unknown but definitely unpleasant emotion, he sets up the coffee pot in the back of the tattoo parlor. He turns it on, offers both you and Dave a silent wave, and disappears back into his office.


	30. Ryuuju no Dengon

Though it's been spring for a solid week, the weather has only now caught up. The freezing temperatures are now only noticeable in the mornings, and you can actually step outside without turning into a frozen husk of your former self. As far as you're concerned, the final remnants of winter are melting away, and it will soon be summer. This comes as a massive relief to you, a person who has never been particularly fond of winter. Snow and ice aren't your friends, and you can almost say that they're your enemies.

To celebrate this, Dave is taking you out.

You've already hit up the local Barnes & Noble, where you eagerly snatched up a final, published copy of _Wizards in Heat III_. You even ran into Kanaya, who happened to be perusing the aisles of the cookbook section, apparently searching for a meal to make for her anniversary with Rose. Dave also made a few purchases in the store's vinyl section, selecting a few Daft Punk albums to take home.

It's now, as both of you exit the store, that two things occur to you. The first is that you've been fucking around in the book store for at least two hours, and the second is that you can hear barking. In fact, you hear a lot of barking.

Dave, however, finds the source before you do. As if drawn by pure, inescapable magnetism, he pulls away from you and makes a sharp right turn, marching purposefully towards the PetSmart next door. Outside of the store are a myriad of cages, all of which contain a dog. A sign on the table advertises that cats and kittens are housed inside; Dave doesn't seem to give a shit about this. Instead, by the time you catch up, he's already kneeling on the ground.

His fingers are shoved—much like those of a disobedient child—through the slats of a cage containing a mid-sized dog. Closer inspection reveals a somewhat hound-like canine, whose mid-length coat is a mix of black, brown, and white. From what you learned during your time spent watching Animal Planet in your formative grub years, you're assuming this is a beagle mixed with a cocker spaniel. Floppy ears, long, thin legs, and the posture and poise of a king. Or, rather, upon closer inspection, a queen.

According to the piece of paper taped to the cage, her name is Venice. This baffles you. Who the _fuck_ names a dog goddamned _Venice_? Then again, it's not the worst name you've ever heard. Besides that, Dave is already invested in this particular pup. Like a kid in a candy store, he tugs your leg to get your attention.

He holds his left hand so that his upwards-pointing index and middle fingers are level with his chin. He flicks them, as if to say "come here," once. _"This one's cute."_ He offers you the widest, most deviant grin you've ever seen from him. Then, he continues, _"Please? She's so cute."_

 _"We're not getting a dog. We don't need a dog. We don't want a dog."_ You try to hold firm in this assertion, though you know you'll be caving in at some point. Still, you have to play it tough to start out. Who knows? Maybe you'll actually win the argument for once. _"Stop smiling at me like that. Stop it. Stop it right now."_

There's a subtle, soft rattling as Dave tries to shove his fingers even further into the cage. He whines, and the sound is exactly what you'd imagine the dog inside would sound like if it knew your boyfriend wanted to take it home.

Around now, a woman approaches you. She offers you a bright smile. "Ah! You're interested in Venice?"

Dave, perhaps sensing this woman's presence in his newfound forcefield of puppy-powered determination, returns to a standard standing position. He nods with enough vigor to displace his glasses, and the wide grin completes his look of childish enthusiasm. When he signs, he signs faster than usual. _"Yes! How do I adopt this dog? I want to adopt this dog. I will pay you money from my pocket right now, right here, to let me take this dog home."_

You, probably looking like an asshole, shake your head. "Ignore Dave. We're fine, thanks."

"Okay," she says, sounding zero percent convinced of this statement, "Well, I can let you walk her, if you want."

 _"Please! It's just a walk."_

Finally, you cave in to Dave's demands. At this point, you reassure yourself that this is only a walk, but you know that this is going to end with you walking home with the paperwork for a new dog. You nod.

The woman opens the cage door, attaches a leash to the dog's collar, and hands it to you.

As soon as the dog has stepped out of the cage, Dave kneels beside her. He whistles. A single, sharp note.

She responds, turns, and jumps onto him, tail wagging.

With her paws on his shoulders, Dave has to sign around her. _"See? We already have chemistry."_

Admittedly, this dog is cute as fuck. You've always loved animals, and anything soft and fluffy is your third weakness. (Your first is Dave, your second is romance novels.) Still, you feel a need to put your foot down. How are you supposed to take care of yourself and your boyfriend in this unpredictable shit-world when you also have to take care of a dog? _"No,"_ you respond.

Dave, again, whines. He runs his hand over the dog's coat, pouts, and argues, _"Casey. We could name her Casey."_

 _"That's what John named his salamander. Now it's fucking dead. Is that what you want?"_ This, you realize, is a shitty argument.

Not surprisingly, seeing as he's a smart guy, Dave also knows your argument is made of duct tape and bullshit. So, he counters with a much better rebuttal. _"She'll be a guard dog. If Cronus or Kankri show up, she can bite their asses."_ He concludes with a confident huff, and you know that _he_ knows that he's won.

You let forth a long, pensive sigh and pull out your wallet.

"I'd like to adopt Venice," you say as you approach the front fold-out table. Dave trails behind you, and you can practically feel his I-told-you-so look burning into you like a brand of vague humiliation. This continues as you're instructed to sign your name, list your qualifications for owning a pet, and provide references to people who will vouch for you not being a piece of shit animal owner. Your references, being Dave's friends, also come with the fun bonus of you having to explain that all communication will need to be TTY or textual. Beyond this, you're also instructed to put down a $150 payment, which the two women behind the counter promise will be returned to you if you don't get the dog.

When all of this is said and done, you then have to convince Dave to let them put Venice back into her cage. After a solid ten minutes of this, you take him to the Coldstone shop across the parking lot as a consolation prize.

* * *

Now, you don't have the dog _yet_ , and you're not even guaranteed the damned dog, but Dave is insistent that you'll get her. Over the next few days, he begins to prepare the apartment for its newest resident.

He purchases a dog bed while you're out. It's a mid-sized one with a soft, fluffy off-white inside and a plaid outside. To go with this, he purchases a shitty crocodile-shaped chew toy and a set of four tennis balls. (Each tennis ball looks like a ball for a different sport. There's one for baseball, soccer, billiards, and a plain tennis ball.)

Finally, he purchases a bright red collar. To go with it, he gets the PetSmart tag machine to print out a golden heart-shaped tag. _"It's because our dog's a Gryffindor,"_ he claims.

You try to act annoyed by all this, but you have to admit that you do a pretty bad job. Really, it's all exciting as hell. You're absolutely amazed that Dave would be willing to share the responsibility of owning a dog with you, and it makes you consider the fact that he's thinking about this relationship in the same way as you. After all, he wouldn't get a dog if he didn't intend for this to last. This is further supported by the fact that he keeps referring to Casey (née Venice) as "our" dog.

* * *

Five days after you applied to be on the list of people to adopt Casey (née Venice), you get a phone call. Naturally, you answer; while Dave _does_ take calls, he prefers not to. You are informed that you were chosen as the dog's new owners, and that the foster owner will be dropping Casey (née Venice) off as soon as it's convenient for you.

Upon Dave's (and, admittedly, your own) insistence, that delivery date is today.

At 5:00 PM, Casey (née Venice, which you shall henceforth stop recognizing) is dropped off. This is met with great joy from Dave, and poorly veiled excitement from you.

The minute the foster owner leaves, you remove the old collar, and Dave replaces it with the new one.

 _"This dog is going to be the most spoiled fluffball to ever exist,"_ your boyfriend insists as he rubs the dog's belly.


	31. Summer Road

The days are growing longer, and the weather is trending towards the impending summer season. This delights you, but seems to bother Dave. You find it odd that the two of you are compatible, as you have just as many similarities as vast differences. This is one of them. Dave prefers winter, while you prefer summer. You prefer heat and warmth, and Dave melts like an ice cream cone when it reaches anything above seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

The mornings, however, remain cold. You take advantage of this fact, and use the time to take Casey on early walks. Dave, meanwhile, takes Casey on her later walks. You've done this on a daily basis for the past week, and the outings are often done solo. Once or twice, Dave's joined you; likewise, you've joined Dave a few times, too. However, both of you like to take this time as your obligatory introvert cooldown period.

Today, you've planned on a five-block round route, which winds its way southeast. It ends at Pierre's Pastry's, a little family-owned bakery (from which come apple turnovers that both you and Dave would happily kill someone for), and loops back home. You've brought along your wallet, some cash, and a plan to treat Dave to a special breakfast.

It's not some sort of holiday. In fact, today falls within the category of that time of the year when no major holidays or events occur. This doesn't deter you; it might even be the driving force behind your desire to surprise your boyfriend.

"In other news, the local troll council has proposed a bill which allows for troll-owned businesses to refuse service to humans. This new local bill, known as the Blood Caste Reinforcement Act, is being considered by local lawmakers as a possibility." The disinterested-looking news anchor grazes past this issue as if it's nothing, but the short blurb bothers you.

For one thing, this is certainly one of many jabs at you from Kankri, and you're fully aware of the fact that it's meant to get your proverbial bleatbeast. It's also something that, despite its archaic ideals, has a fair chance of getting put into action. You doubt this will happen, but know that Kankri can pull strings if he so desires. Returning to your reassurance of the bill's failure, however, you know that Kankri won't waste bribe money on something as petty as this. If anything, he's saving his funds for something bigger.

"Two apple turnovers and a loaf of blueberry bread." The voice from behind the counter draws you back to reality. You pay, thank the employee, and swiftly depart.

As per usual, the walk back home seems quicker than the first half of the journey.

You reenter the apartment as quietly as possible, unleash Casey, and—with the apple turnovers in hand—creep down the hallway. You push open the door to Dave's room (which, to be honest, you've been sharing with him more often than not) and nudge him awake.

He responds with a groggy yawn. _"Shit. Did I sleep in again?"_ He rolls over and squints at you. _"You know I can't see shit in the dark, dude. Don't be a jackass."_

You offer a shrug in reply. You pull one of the turnovers from the bag.

 _"Is that what I think it is?"_ As if roused by a whole pot of fresh coffee, Dave sits upright. He reaches his hands out, grabbing at the air like a needy child, and stares at the pastry with wide, eager eyes.

Seeing as teasing him isn't nearly as fun in the morning, when he's mostly asleep, as it is later in the day, you immediately hand it over. As he rapidly scarfs it down, the satisfaction of your good deed warms your otherwise cold heart. You also take the time to eat your turnover, albeit at a more leisurely pace than Dave.

 _"You're the best, Karkat,"_ Dave comments, though only after finishing. _"See anything interesting while you were out? Any juice new news or gossip?"_

For a moment, you consider telling Dave about the news you'd seen at Pierre's. Then again, you also know that something like that would never make it into the lawbooks. It's just another scare tactic from Kankri, and telling Dave would only fuel the smoldering ashes of your brother's twisted plot. So, you keep it to yourself. You shake your head as you respond, emphasizing exactly how little you'd actually encountered on your walk. _"Nope. Nothing."_

This isn't exactly a lie. You didn't hear anything or see anything of note; the news is bullshit. Its weight isn't anything near what you'd need for it to be to tell Dave, seeing as it would only spurn his insecurities.

The rest of the day passes in what can only be described as the purest, most banal uneventfulness there is. Work—for both you and Dave—is average in every possible way. John continues to pester you about your relationship, citing his need for evidence to present to Jade for his payout, and few customers ever wall through the door.

At 6:00 PM, you hop into the car alongside Dave and return home.

The two of you share a dinner of microwavable mashed potatoes and Salisbury steak, then spend the rest of your night watching what Dave calls "the old people station." It's a channel which, at all times, airs only shows over twenty years old. Tonight, they're showing back-to-back reruns of some shitty show, _Saved by the Bell_. It baffles you that Dave wants to watch it, and the four hours you spend together doesn't clarify the hazy reasoning.

At 10:00 PM, you and Dave tuck into bed. (Really, it's closer to 11:00 PM; while you often intend to be in bed by 10:00, preparation often runs until 10:45.)

For the past week, you've moved back to sleeping in your own room. This way, Casey can jump onto the bed. You are still, however, perched precariously on the edge of a twin bed; unlike Dave's, it's not lofted. This is a small comfort.

And, here, in the dim light of the waxing half-moon, you find yourself staring into Dave's eyes. There's little room to move, so his signing brushes against your face and chest; likewise, when you sign, you end up touching him. At first, it had been awkward. Now, it's normal. How else could you converse with one another? Sure, the logical thing to do would be to get a new bed, but you don't have money for that right now. So, instead, you settle with this.

 _"I had this stupid idea,"_ he begins, a wide grin gracing his features.

You, naturally, egg him on. _"It can't be any worse than your usual ideas, Dave."_

He shrugs. He shoves you gently before continuing. _"What if we just... Leave? We leave here and never come back. Not until Kankri and Cronus are long gone. Get a big RV, some tattoo equipment, and start up a traveling tattoo business."_

You laugh at the ridiculousness of this proposal. How the hell would this work? What the hell would you be doing? _"Dave, I'm enrolled for a semester at Skaia. I can't just drop out. What would I do?"_

 _"You're a people person, and you'd be my right-hand troll."_ Despite his enthusiasm, his smile wanes. He seems to understand your implications. _"I get that it would be a stupid idea, but we wouldn't have to worry about Kankri. And you've already said restraining orders won't work."_

 _"He's got too many friends in too many places,"_ you explain, again. You sigh. _"It's a good idea, but I'm not sure how it would work."_

 _"It's worth trying."_ Dave shrugs. He runs his fingers through your hair, his touch neither too gentle nor painfully rough. After a few moments, he rolls over, onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. You're aware that he probably can't see it; his vision is shit at nighttime, and the fact that he's nearsighted doesn't help.

After a few moments, he signs something else. He holds his left hand at chest level, with the palm facing his chest and the middle finger bent inwards at the base knuckle. A quick flick of the wrist moves this handshape upwards, like something rising up within him. Then, his hand forms a "V". The palm faces downwards, and he moves the handshape so that the tips of his fingers touch the base of his neck. _"I feel stuck."_

 _"Understandable."_ You inch closer to Dave.

He offers you a pensive sigh. _"I hate your brother."_

 _"I do, too,"_ you laugh.

He does, too, but it's more subdued than usual. It's a hoarse snicker instead of his usual loud, booming laughter. Then, after a minute or so of silence, he shifts to a different topic. _"Do you still want that tattoo from earlier?"_

 _"Don't you think we should update it a little?"_ you inquire, knowing exactly what he's talking about. (How could you forget? The page is tacked to the cork board over your desk.)

To this, Dave counters with a grin. You know that, underneath this, he's still mulling over his idea from earlier. That's just how he is; you're not going to prod him about it like an annoying busybody. _"What do you want? A heard that says 'Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas 4 ever' on it?"_ He elbows you in the side.

You respond by ruffling his hair. _"No, I'm just thinking something a little different. Maybe add something you wouldn't have had before."_

 _"I'll see what I can do,"_ he promises, rolling his eyes. From here, he gathers the bedclothes around him and yawns. _"Now, go to sleep, Karkat. It's getting late."_

 _"Sleep well, jackass."_ You gently shove him as he rolls over so that his back faces you.

He responds with a swift wave.


	32. Porco e Bella

Today, the air is thick and humid. Your sweat clings to you like saranwrap, and it's about as welcome as that analogy would be if it were literal. That is to say, in more succinct terms, that it's hot as hell and too damned humid. You might like the heat, but you don't like _humid_ heat. Dry heat is tolerable. It keeps you from turning into a troll-shaped block of ice. Humid heat, however, is like being licked by Satan's tongue, then hung out to dry on his clothesline.

To escape this heat, you've decided to finally take Dave up on his offer to give you a tattoo. You've told him to do whatever—you'd honestly be happy to have anything tattooed onto your right forearm if it comes from Dave. Though you'd never admit it to his face, you love his art. You admire it, and you're even a bit envious of his skills. However, out of no particular reason beyond "why not," you've decided to keep it simple. All black. No need for frills this time.

To distract you from the pain—although, to you, it's little more than mild discomfort—he's set the store's surround sound to play some low-volume jazz. He's engaged you in conversation from time to time, though it obviously can't go anywhere. You can't move to sign, and he'd have to stop tattooing to discuss things with you.

For the first time, you wonder what it would be like if Dave had kept the job at the grocer's and gotten a new implant. Would he have settled with learning to speak, or would he have continued without it?

 _"Skylark.  
Have you anything to say to me?  
Won't you tell me where my love can be?  
Is there a meadow in the mist,  
Where someone's waiting to be kissed?"_

You heave a heavy sigh and stare upwards, at gently pulsating fluorescent light above you.

In three weeks, you'll begin your first semester at Skaia University. If it doesn't work out, then you've agreed to follow Dave's wild idea of a traveling tattoo business.

You find this strange, but pleasant. Half a year ago, you would have laughed yourself to death if someone were to suggest to you that you'd be happily dating Dave Strider. You would have been the most incredulous being on the planet if you'd been told that you'd be following the fucker on some sort of batshit journey across the country. "Bullshit," you would have invariably responded, "Absolute fucking bullshit."

 _"Oh, skylark,  
Have you seen a valley green with spring,  
Where my heart can go a-journeying  
Over the shadows and the rain,  
To a blossom-covered lane?"_

Dave's touch is as gentle as you've come to expect. He rubs the skin with his cloth only hard enough to wipe away excess ink, and it never causes any discomfort. The grip on your arm is light, yet firm. While you could easily pull away if you so desired, any smaller movements are held at bay. He works with a mixture of speed and precision. While his lines are bold, confident, and done without remorse, they're also delicate and thoughtful.

Just watching him work mesmerizes you. What the final design will be is a mystery, but you don't really care either way. You'd honestly be enthralled if he tattooed dickbutt onto you, because it would be done with the skill and precision of a Strider's hand.

 _"And in your lonely flight,  
Haven't you heard the music of the night?  
Wonderful music,  
Faint as a will o' the wisp,  
Crazy as a loon."_

The needle slows, and Dave pulls away for a moment. He takes a few sips from his nearby glass of water, and makes some small talk before continuing. _"You holding out okay?"_ he asks, his brows furrowed to indicate his inquiry.

You nod.

He responds with a smile—one of those familiar, lopsided grins, which lights up his face and makes your heart flip like a sugar-high gymnast. After checking the clock over the front door, he pivots his spinning chair back towards you, scoots in, and continues working.

 _"Oh, skylark,  
I don't know if you can find these things,  
But my heart is riding on your wings.  
So, if you see them anywhere,  
Won't you lead me there?"_

It sounds to you as if this particular recording was ripped straight from a vinyl source. Having perused through Dave's collection once or twice (or, perhaps, many) times, you've come to know this sound. Especially in regards to older songs, such as this, it's mellow. There's a faint warbling quality and a somewhat muted tone. The brass stands out, and the strings offer a gentle drone rather than a crisp vocal quality. The soft cracking and popping in the background only serves to back up your theory.

 _"Oh, skylark,  
Won't you lead me there?"_

As the song comes to a close, Dave once again raises the needle. This time, however, he backs away after blotting out the excess ink. He offers you an expectant, if not a bit nervous, smile. _"Well, that's it. I hope you like it."_

Though you're surprised it's finished so quickly, you feel as if you should have expected such. It is, after all, a complimentary black-ink-only tattoo.

Nonetheless, when you study it, you find that it holds far more intricacy than you could have ever thought it would for such a relatively short session. The design remains the same as before, but the sickle is no longer drawn in a photorealistic style. Now, it's comprised of two different sections. The handle is rendered in a replication of the stylistic quality of old etchings. Value is obtained through meticulous hatching and crosshatching, yet you can easily imagine how well this handle would fit into your hand. Then, there's the blade, which has a bold outline. Inside, however, it is filled with an impressionistic array of spirals and random designs.

When you're finally able to pull your eyes away from this, you look back to Dave. _"It's a little experimental. I hope you don't mind."_ Again, he punctuates the statement with a nervous smile.

You respond with an unaltered grin. _"It's amazing, you dork."_

He frowns. _"Really? You can tell me if you don't like it. I'd completely understand."_

 _"No,"_ you reassure him, _"It's really awesome. I promise."_


	33. Memories of Gondoa

**You began dating Dave Strider in early January, shortly after the introduction of the new year. At the time, you thought it would be something stupid** **—** **some shitty diversion from your everyday life that, like the only other two romantic relationships you ever had, would eventually end in heartbreak. Since then, you've been proven wrong. Your expectation were set low, and they've been surpassed umpteen-fold. In a way, it baffles you that your first long-term relationship is with Dave Strider, a man you'd formerly vowed to hate and had once declared an enemy.**

 **As spring passes, and turns to summer, you're met with more surprises.**

 **Many of these can be named off the top of your head, as they've made an impression on you. For Valentine's Day, he drove you to the nearby harbor and took you on a dinner boat. You've both adopted a dog together, and named it Casey. You've also begun to look into the possibility of leaving Newhaven, Skaia to start a new life** **—** **one where Kankri and Cronus are distant, shitty memories.**

 **Now, however, it's June. The air is beyond warm** **—** **bordering on "hotter than Satan's flaming asshole", and the humidity only makes it worse.**

Today, Dave has taken it upon himself to get some time off work. When you wake, you find Casey—as usual—curled up at your feet, and a note taped to the bedside table. You follow the note's instructions and, after sliding into your slippers and pulling on Dave's bathrobe (which you regularly steal), you groggily trudge into the dining room.

Here, you're met with two things. The first is a breakfast comprised of an omelet made with Alternian spices (as the scent attests), and the second is your boyfriend. The latter thing is common, but you feel obligated to question the first of these two findings. _"What's this for? Did Kankri get hit by a truck?"_

Dave, after laughing at your commentary, rolls his eyes. _"No, idiot, it's your birthday."_

You pause. It takes you a few moments to plot out your course of action. You reach into the robe's pocket and pull out your phone, which you'd left there earlier last night. Checking the date on the lock screen confirms Dave's claim. It is, indeed, June 12th.

"Fuck!" you exclaim aloud. Clearly, you've done a bad job of keeping track of the dates.

Dave, however, graciously looks past this oversight. And, as usual, he allows you to eat your breakfast in silence. While you occupy yourself with enjoying some damned good troll cuisine alongside the daily newspaper's crossword puzzle, Dave busies himself with his art.

When you're finished, you set the plate in the sink and turn to your boyfriend. _"I'm guessing you have plans for today?"_

 _"Yeah,"_ Dave nods. _"Whatever you want to do is what I'm going to do."_

 _"I want some orange comic creator to throw me into a pool of lava, killing me instantly,"_ you respond, rolling your eyes.

Dave understands your sense of humor, and fires back with his own remark. _"Maybe not that. You can die tomorrow, but it's in poor taste to die on your birthday."_ He concludes with a small smile.

You let forth a long sigh. In all honesty, you'd be perfectly fine staying in the apartment. Dave, however, has other plans; he probably expects you to want to go somewhere. And you're not going to be the one to crush his awkward notions of friendship and romance. With how hot it is outside, you know one thing—you will _not_ be doing anything outdoors. So, you allow yourself to ponder your possibilities. Eventually, you settle with pulling something out of your ass. _"How about the art museum?"_

 _"You really want to go to the art museum?"_ Dave frowns. The edges of his lips twitch to form a small frown, though it's quickly erased by a wide grin. _"Sure! It's your birthday, Karkat."_

The museum is twenty minutes from your house. The parking deck is a bit of a walk from the actual building, though an array of beautifully designed walkways crisscross one another and lead from point A to point B. Unfortunately, the beauty of the walkways is lost in a mad dash for the door. Once inside, though, the air is comfortably cool.

The first floor is spacious and open, featuring only wall art and a few sculptures. There's a huge water sphere—the sort that tends to be outside science-y places, which seems to float upon the jet of water it sits upon. Printed onto the orb's surface is a web of circuitry-like design. The artist's statement says something about the piece being about the perpetuation of technological problems; you couldn't care less if it was written in goddamned Klingon. There's also a large metal sculpture, which resembled many giant and colorful toothpicks stuck together. Neither you nor Dave care enough to venture near it.

Instead, you wander aimlessly.

The downstairs galleries are filled with modern art. You hate it; Dave seems indifferent.

Thus, you wander to the second floor.

Here, you're met with a list of the galleries on this level. All of the pieces are European, and all of them hail from between 1200 and 1900. Much of it is the standard of what you'd expect to find in an art museum. Formal paintings of formerly esteemed and now-dead people, landscapes, and other things which bore you to no end.

Being who he is, Dave notices this. You guess it's through you unconscious actions—your posture and body language is something that Dave always picks up on. As you pass by a particularly tiny French painting, Dave taps you on the shoulder. When you turn to him, he comments, _"There must not have been a lot to do back then."_

 _"Why're you saying that?"_ You know the answer he gives is going to be a joke, and you're prepared.

However, you're unprepared for just how characteristically Dave it is. _"They painted this tiny-ass postcard shit instead of doing something else. How fucking bored were they?"_

Despite the fact that this is a rather bad joke and that it's not all that funny, you can't help but snicker. This draws the ire of a tired-looking security guard, and you can only assume that he now thinks you're an uncultured heathen. You don't really care about his opinion, though, and thus continue on your way.

Throughout the rest of the second floor galleries, you swap snide comments and rude gestures.

Eventually, you make it to the third floor.

The galleries here are a bit more varied. Neither of you bother checking the list of what's here, and simply wander into what ends up being the mixed Art Deco and Art Nouveau gallery. While much of the art on display in this section is decorative home art and furnishings, you find it much more enthralling than the previous sections. You take particular note of a large bedroom suite, which features flowing curvilinear lines and nature-inspired embellishments.

 _"Yeah. This set's always been one of my favorites, too,"_ Dave comments, dropping the first serious artistic commentary of the day. _"This whole set would have been machine-produced for one rich bastard and shipped to wherever the hell they wanted."_

You nod slowly. _"How do you know that?"_

 _"I went to college,"_ Dave responds, sticking out his lower lip in a show of faux indignation, _"I learned some things before I dropped out."_

Around now, it occurs to you that Dave has never spoken of his college years. All he's ever mentioned has been little more than brief tidbits, and none of it seemed to hold any sort of sentimental value. So, you figure that you might as well use this opportunity to pick his brain. _"Did you like college?"_

 _"Not at all,"_ Dave groans. He rolls his eyes and offers you a facial expression you could easily compare to the look someone gives you when you've said something obvious. _"I wasn't really a studying guy. Teachers always told me I had the brains, but not the discipline. You?"_

 _"Opposite. I have the discipline, but not necessarily the brains."_ You shrug.

Dave replies with an incredulous huff. _"You're smart as fuck. You got into Skaia University, so that's something right there!"_

You shrug. You suppose that your college acceptance is worth something, but time is starting to erode at your desire to actually go. Why bother? You don't know what you'd study, you'd end up in massive debt, and it sure as hell won't do wonders for your anxiety. _"Thanks. I'm not so sure it's worth going, though. Maybe I'll just pack up and head out with you?"_

 _"No!"_ Dave insists. _"We have an agreement, Karkat. You'll do one semester, then we'll see how things are. We haven't even dated a year. Don't make a decision like that because of me."_ Having said this, he buries his hands in his pockets. From experience, you know that this means he's done talking about the subject. So, you neatly file away this information in your mind and move to another topic, this one spawned from the sudden appearance of a sign advertising the museum restaurant.

 _"Are you hungry?"_ You ask.

As if on cue, Dave's stomach growls. He offers you an affirmative nod. _"Hell yeah. I'm starving."_

Obviously, you react by dragging him into the restaurant. Once inside, you find it's more of an a la carte place, where you order from premade dishes and they tally it up at the end. Both of you settle of two distinctly different meals. While you take a seafood approach—some cocktail shrimp, a small salad, and baked eggplant—Dave indulges in pure Americana—a burger, a side of fries, and a dessert of straight chocolate ice cream (garnished with a lopsided vanilla wafer).

It's an amazing meal, and both of you agree that it comes late enough in the day to count as a lunch and dinner combo. For dessert, Dave simply drops by Coldstone Creamery on the way home.

In all of your birthdays within the past few years, you can recall feeling nothing beyond a sense of dread. You knew that Kankri would throw you some shitty party, which would be attended by all of his friends and their children, and you hated all of them. They were all trolls, and all of them were too far gone to the Signless cause to be interesting.

Today, however, stands out. It's definitely the best birthday you can recall in recent years. Of course, you owe that to Dave. You make a mental note to thank him for this in the morning, though this reminder is quickly lost in the shuffle of nightly routines.


	34. The Merry Light Calvary Men

**Time passes as it always has.**

 **The minutes turn to hours, the hours to days, and the days to weeks, and so on and so on and so on. It's little more than the daily grind** **—** **the day-to-day nuances of surviving from one day to the next, and trying to balance your survival style with Dave's. Not that this skill is rough, and it certainly isn't unpolished. You've been around him long enough to know how your lifestyles mesh, and you've come to know him well enough to know where your personalities conflict. It's a balancing act which defines a good relationship.**

 **Give some. Lose some. Gain more.**

 **But, outside of your world of introspection, it's the Fourth of July!**

* * *

You've prepared yourself for the sound of fireworks, which will undoubtedly cut into your sleep. You, much like Casey, have never been fond of storms and loud, thunder-like noises. In fact, Dave often jokes that he'll give you one of Casey's sedatives. To this, you often quip that he'll end up dating a dog. The cycle of stupidity often goes full circle after this, but the primary takeaway is that you _hate_ fireworks.

So, to balance this out, Dave has planned an indoor barbeque. He's invited all of his friends, and extended the invitation for you to invite your friends. Then again, your only friends are Dave's friends, so it works out well.

Right now, you're setting up the table on which you'll set out all of the food. "The good shit," or, "That dank ass meat," as Dave calls it. You, being the only half to remember the dietary choices of your friends, also prepared a large salad for Roxy. Against Dave's advice, you declined to mix in some "low-grade weed" into it.

 _"This is going to be great,"_ comments Dave. There's genuine excitement behind his signing, which is wide and sweeping and captivating in every sense. _"We're going to pop in some ear plugs, break in this place's fire pit, and serve up some alcohol-free fun, because we don't want to be the ones to wake those dreaded Strider genes."_

You nod. You know that Dave is referring to alcoholism; he's spoken about its impact on his life often. And, frankly, you don't need to hear the horror stories twice. So, you let his commentary remain without question. Instead, you run your fingers through Casey's fur and stare upwards, to the clear, blue sky. After a few moments, you come up with some semblance of a reply. _"Well, I hate to say it, but I'm pretty fucking excited for this."_

 _"You know it,"_ Dave grins and elbows you in the side.

* * *

Several hours later, around 6:00 PM, people start to arrive. As per the instructions sent out in the invitations, everyone is required to bring some food.

John is the first. Naturally, he brings a massive cake. Since this isn't exactly a patriotic celebration, it's shaped like a turkey. You question this, but he claims it was practice for his Thanksgiving celebration. You let him slide without further inquiries.

Jade comes next, and she brings some home-grown celery sticks and peanut butter. The peanut butter, however, is not homemade. At least, you're guessing she didn't fill and seal a Jiff container with homemade peanut butter.

Dirk and Jake arrive together, and they bring a single dish. Dirk claims the wings he's brought are "world famous," though you have a suspicion that that might be because they're from KFC. You can't prove it, though, so—like John—you're forced to leave the situation as it is.

Rose and Kanaya are the finals ones to arrive (Roxy was invited, but ended up getting the flu). Their dish, like Jade's, is vegetarian, and happens to be Rose's own recipe. You're unsure of what's in them, but the stuffed mushrooms are pretty damned good.

* * *

The party remains calm until sunset. At around 8:00 PM, you all settle in to watch the fireworks from the nearby baseball stadium. They rise above the tops of the trees and burst into colorful sprays of fire, then dissipate into the night.

Currently, you're on the large sectional sofa, which has been angled towards the apartment window. You're sandwiched between Dave and, to your embarrassment, Rose goddamned Lalonde. (Also known as your favorite author.)

"Dave tells me you're going to Skaia University," Rose says.

You, after getting over the shock of being spoken to by Rose Lalonde, nod slowly. "Yeah. I'll be going for the fall semester."

"I graduated from there," announces Rose, "It's a lovely school. A bit old-fashioned in terms of some of the student body, but that may have changed in recent years."

"Oh," is all you manage to say.

Rose, however, continues, "They have an online study program, too," she informs you.

This causes you to pause. "Why're you telling me that?"

"Because I've heard that you and Dave are thinking of creating a traveling tattoo business, and I thought it would benefit you to know all your options." Rose punctuates this with a small, enigmatic smile. Looking at her, you can't help but see the perfect in-the-flesh replica of the author thumbnails printed at the end of each of her books.

Your mind doesn't have long to linger on this, though, as Dave taps you on the shoulder.

 _"Check out the lovers over there,"_ he snickers as he signs this.

And, following the direction of his gestures, your eyes fall upon two very drunk people. Both Dirk and Jake are sitting on the other part of the sectional, and they seem to be in the middle of a passionate but very drunk kissing match. They're pressed against the armrest, and John has edges as far as he physically can from the scene of the crime.

When your eyes meet his—vivid blue, as always—he mouths to you, "Get these two asses away from me!"

Dave, having caught wind of John's commentary, lets forth one of his usual laughs. _"My hands are tied with my own Romeo."_ He waggles his brows, then grabs you by the shoulder, using his free hand to continue, _"Will you accept a fireworks finale kiss?"_

You nod.

He obeys and, like some sort of clichéd scene from an overdone romance, his lips press against yours as the fireworks reach the peak of their activity. As usual, he doesn't linger long—he never does. His kisses are brief, but satisfying. They don't extent any more than they need to.

Once he's through, he offers you a small grin. He rises to his feet and waltzes over to Jake and Dirk. _"Don't get your bodily crap all over my sofa."_ He makes this comment just before separating them.

Meanwhile, whilst one couple as ceased their public displays of affection, another has just started. Rose and Kanaya's cuddling, however, is far less intrusive than the drunken shenanigans of your other guests.

These recent developments seem to amuse Jade.

* * *

By 10:00 PM, only John remains. Jade drove Dirk and Jake home.

Right now, the three of you are playing video games. You're unsure of what's happening, but the colorful world on the screen seems to revolve around creatures, all of which have strangely shaped heads, collecting as many things as possible into some sort of ball. Right now, your goal is collect as many Japanese-related items as you can. You've already played this round thrice, and Dave has won every time.

John has simply given up, and is reclining on his spot on the sectional. "I heard that one of Kankri's friends is in trouble with the cops."

You frown. Figuring that you, too, will lose this match, you allow your attentions to drift to John. "Which one?"

"The guy on city council. Looks like he embezzled a whole assload of funds," John responds, scrolling through something on his phone. "Maybe it was the judge?"

You nod.

If the judge is in trouble, then that means a few things. Firstly, he'll be impeached. Secondly, he'll have to be replaced. When these things happen, he'll invariably be replaced by someone else, and that someone else might just be your ticket to a much-needed restraining order. "What was the fucker's last name?"

John pauses. He chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds and, after some thought, flashes you one of his usual goofy grins. "Luscus."

"The judge," you respond.

John nods. "I guess. I don't know."

Dave, at this point, seems to finally catch on to your conversation. He pauses the game. _"Less talking, more playing. I want to kick your asses in a fair match."_

You respond with a dramatic sigh. _"You've done that three times already. Do you need to do it again?"_

 _"Best out of five,"_ Dave responds.

You roll yours eyes. _"Then you've already won, meathead."_

 _"Doesn't matter. Keep playing,"_ Dave concludes, shoving your controller into your hands. _"Besides, it's rude to talk when you know I can't hear you. I'll ask you about what happened later."_

 _"You could ask me,"_ John volunteers, a sly smile on his face.

Dave, however, knows better. You'd expect he would, considering how long he's been friends with John. _"You're just going to tell me it's a secret. Karkat will actually tell me what happened."_

 _"I might tell you this time, though!"_ protests John, his lower lip sticking out in a show of poorly executed pouting.

Rolling his eyes, Dave responds by shoving John's controller into his hands. _"Shush. Play, fools!"_ At this point, he unpauses the game.

For the remainder of the time that John spends in your apartment—a solid two hours, if your watch is right—the three of you continue to face off against one another in this odd game. You and John manage to win a few, but the majority of the victories go to Dave.

By the time everything is back in a vague semblance of livable order, both of you are too tired to discuss what John had said. Nonetheless, you keep the information in the back of your mind for later use.


	35. Requiem (Nausicäa)

**It's strange to wake up without Dave beside you. He's** _ **always**_ **beside you, even when you don't want him to be. Sure, your first words are usually "move over, asshole, and stop heating the bed up like some sort of overzealous** _ **kotatsu**_ **," but it's a ritual. It's what you've come to expect every morning, and waking up without it is strange as fuck. Then again, a lot of things about your relationship are strange as fuck. You've gotten used to them, and you've grown fond of them. And, as far as you're concerned, you're switching to online courses as soon as possible.**

Nonetheless, you wake up. You attend your classes dutifully, take notes, and work hard. You are, after all, proving yourself. How can you complete courses online that you can't complete in person?

Still, what would you do with these skills? If you're going to help Dave with the traveling tattoo company, what the hell would this goddamned class about pilgrim life teach you? Nothing that you'd absolutely _need_ to know.

So, in your free time, you start doodling.

They're ugly, childish things. Random lines and shapes which, altogether, form absolutely nothing of any importance. You can't make any sense of them, but you feel like it's something you should at least _try_ to 's only 1:00 PM when you return.

You know that Dave won't be back from work this soon, so you content yourself with working on some assignments. You do some preliminary readings and work ahead where you can. The more free time you can have, the better. You also take Casey for a walk, because you're a _responsible_ dog owner, goddammit. (You also have a more extensive schedule tomorrow, so you're making up for what you know will be a no-walk day.)

At some point, the phone rings. The caller ID announces what you already know; it's Kankri. This doesn't worry you a bit. After all, the restraining order has gone through. Neither of those twits can really do anything to you without getting into legal hot water, and you know both of them well enough to know that neither would do that. Still, you're always aware of your surroundings. The two could always send someone else to do some shit.

For now, though, you're safe.

 _"I picked up some of that green gloop you like so much,"_ Dave comments, setting before you a full cup of Iced Sopor. As per usual, you know it's not _real_ sopor. The pure stuff is outlawed universally, and it's no surprise. After all, it's potent as fuck. One drop and you'll be high enough to do damned near anything. For all you know, someone's chopped off heads and stored them in a fridge while high on that shit.

You, however, are not complaining. The flavor is good enough for you, and it's goddamned amazing. It's the perfect thign to wrap up a long day, and you're sure to thank your boyfriend for his thoughtfulness. You lean across the table and offer him a quick peck on the lips. It's something you've been squeamish about until recently, but you've clearly overcome your initial dislke for it. _"It's scary how well you know me,"_ you comment, rolling your eyes.

He retorts with a dismissive huff. _"I'm your boyfriend, stupid, why wouldn't I know what you like to drink?"_ He, too, rolls his eyes. He turns only long enough to retrieve a plate of meat lovers pizza-the sort with umpteen different types of meat on it-and quickly sits down across from you. _"Your brother called,"_ he comments, his brows raised a bit. A question. He wants to know more.

You, however, never bothered to answer the call. You didn't even check the message. _"Probably just another 'go fuck yourself,'"_ you shrug. _"Typical shit."_

 _"I figured."_ Dave laughs. A skillful flick of his wrist pops some of the spinach off of his plate, across the table, and onto your plate. When he sees that you've noticed, he feigns innocence. _"I'm guesssing you didn't check, either?"_

 _"Why would I?"_ You shrug.

He nods. You know what he wants to say without actual words. "Good point." Instead of hammering away at a dead hoofbeast of a topic, he switches things up. _"Sollux said he'd financially back me if I could find a good RV and some equipment."_

The comment catches you off-guard, but it's a good sort of off-guard. It's less a slap in the face and more a pat on the back. You hold your hands up, roughly level with your shoulders, and flick your fingers so that they go from a loose "O" (formed at the middle finger) to flat, opened palms. Since this could mean one of three things, you complete the sign with a wide grin. _"Awesome!"_

 _"I know,"_ Dave responds, waggling his brows as he does. _"We could get our big break soon! And I didn't even have to rob a bank."_

 _"You were never planning on robbing a bank, you law-abiding little shit,"_ you counter.

Dave simply shrugs. As per usual, he doesn't concede defeat. Instead, he edges around it and continues with his topic, _"We'll get to keep the company name, too!"_

 _"So you'll still be Inkbound?"_ you inquire, raising your brows to show that you're expecting an answer.

 _"Yeah! We won't even have to get new name tags or uniforms!"_ Here, there's a brief pause. Dave's cheeks turn a light pink, though the color fades quickly. _"You will, of course."_

 _"I never had a uniform to begin with."_

 _"My point exactly."_ Dave concludes with a wink. He gathers the now-empty plates, rinses them off, and haphazardly shoves them into a slowly filling dishwasher before turning back to you. _"We're still watching a movie, right?"_

 _"I'm afraid so,"_ you reply with a great amount of faux distress.

Dave, as you expected, sees right through it. He grins, elbows you in the side, and dives into the stack underneath the television.

Against all rhyme and reason, he pulls out goddamned _Space Jam_.


End file.
